


Jack In The Box

by Liketheriver



Series: Bedtime Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liketheriver/pseuds/Liketheriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been kidnapped, Mycroft has rules, and Lestrade has to do his best to keep up with Sherlock as they deal with a returning foe.  Lestrade POV as he and Sherlock work to find John, even though that's the last thing John seems to want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack In The Box

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Koschka for pushing to finish this over the last six months. And huge thanks to Spacedmonkey for the Brit picks. All remnants of my American self are my own and no reflection of her genuine Britishness. This is a direct sequel to Bedtime Stories, so if you haven't read that, then this one may not make as much sense as it should. Also, since that one took off into a bit of AU territory, I took liberties with certain characters no longer being, well, dead.

 

When I was boy, my Gran had an old Jack-in-the-box she’d been given as a child back in World War I.  Not that I would ever admit it now, seeing as I’m a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard, but that thing scared the living daylights out of me.  Don’t get me wrong, I was quite the little sod as a lad, into mischief whenever the opportunity presented itself, reckless to the point of endangering myself on more than one occasion.  But there was something about that toy that would send a shiver down my spine just to look at it. If that cold tin box with the crank that played nursery rhymewith a creepy metallic twang wasn’t bad enough, at any given time a ratty old clown would pop out and bounce around.  Clowns—pure evil in a painted smile is what they are, and no one will ever convince me otherwise.  The first time Gran showed me how it worked, I was about four years old.  I ran and hid under the bed as soon as that bloody puppet popped out.  Considering it was dark and smelled like mothballs under there, and pretty damn creepy in its own right, it just goes to show how fucked up I thought that old toy really was.  The clown was bad enough on its own, but what really got me was the way it would just spring up when you least expected it, even with that sodding music as warning of what was to come.

Maybe that’s why I’m hearing the eerie strains of _Pop Goes the Weasel_ playing over and over in my head the more John talks over his pint.

"I mean, it’s not like Sherlock isn’t, you know…attentive… in the bedroom…"

H _alf a pound of tuppenny rice_ …

"…but sometimes, I think, maybe, his work…I don’t know..."

… _half a pound of treacle_ …

"I mean, just the other night, he was in the middle of giving me one of the most spectacular blow jobs of my life…"

… _mix it up and make it nice_ …

"…when all of a sudden he pulls off me with a…"

_POP!_

"…lifts his head and says…"

 _Goes the weasel_.

"… ‘John, I just came up with the most extraordinary way to preserve the collagen in tissue samples without the risk of freezer burn.’ "

My own glass stops midway between the smooth wood of the bar and my mouth, which has suddenly developed an involuntary tick.  I suspect no amount of alcohol will ever remove the image John has seared into my brain, but I try my best by downing the remaining half of my glass in three long gulps.

O _kay, Greg,_ I tell myself, _you can do this.  It’s not like you’ve never had a mate discuss a good bob on the knob in the past._ Of course, to be fair, the discussion had never involved one bloke noshing another, but it’s the 21st  century, after all, and I’m a modern guy.  I watch Graham Norton, I voted for Will Young on _Pop Idol_ , and truth be told, I own more than one Elton John album on the original vinyl.  Besides, this is John we’re talking about, who’s a damn good man, and a fine friend.

And having sex with Sherlock.

_Up and down the city road…_

Apparently I don’t work through the whole enlightened modern male issues quite fast enough, because John is shaking his head with a contrite smile.

"I’m sorry, this is probably something you don’t want to hear—"

"No, no," I insist, trying to take another very long draw from my glass, only to realize it’s already empty.  "It’s…that is…"  I find I _really_ need another drink.

"Greg, honestly, I know this whole thing with Sherlock and me is, well, unexpected."

"Actually, there was a sweepstake at the Yard," I tell him. 

"A sweepstake?"  He laughs and rolls his eyes. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised."

I shrug and set down my empty glass on the bar as I flag down the barkeep and order another one.  "Most people lost out because they had picked a date two years ago."

"And how did you do?" he asks.

I grin triumphantly.  "How about I pick up the tab tonight?"

It just makes John lean back on his stool and laugh harder, which is good to see considering how rare that had been for those nine months we all thought Sherlock was dead.  I learned a lot during that time, about John Watson as a person, about his devotion to Sherlock Holmes, about loyalty in general.  I may not understand it, but there is no denying John’s feeling for Sherlock. After all, John seems so _normal_ on the surface.  But, as odd as it seems, I can’t deny Sherlock’s feelings for John in return.  After years of watching Sherlock happily verbally eviscerate any human he came in contract with, if anything was a surprise, it is his absolute devotion to John.

"I may have had the inside edge on that one," I admit, "considering I was there that first night he was back."

"Still, discussing my love life, with _him_ …" 

The way he stresses the masculine has me trying my best to seem unfazed by it.  "Look, this is stuff mates talk about, and a dick’s a dick, and a mouth’s a mouth.  Although I usually picture Sherlock’s mouth tearing through my staff like Baskerville tore through my scarf last week."

"Sorry about that, I still want to pay for a new one—"

I hold up my hand.  "John, you weren’t talking about that demon dog of yours, you were talking about Sherlock doing…stuff."  Thank God my new pint shows up.  I take a drink then a deep breath _.  Time to be the bigger man and the better friend, Greg._   "So, tell me, did you give him hell for leaving things… incomplete?"

So, my voice may have cracked a bit there at the end, but I do manage to maintain eye contact even as I clear my throat.  John, however, pauses, as if determining if he really should continue his story.

"Come on, John.  Surely you told him what’s what after something like that."

John finally leans a little closer, speaks a little more confidentially.  "‘Sherlock,’ I said as calmly as possible, ‘we’ve talked about this before’—"

I straighten in surprise.  "Wait, this isn’t the first time this has happened?"

He shakes his head with another long-suffering roll of his eyes before resuming his story.  "I said, ‘we’ve talked about how when we’re being intimate, you need to concentrate on me and not a case you’re working on.’"

"And?" I prompt.

"And he says, ‘But when I give you all my concentration, it’s over much too quickly, and I want you to enjoy it for as long as possible’."  John shakes his head as he lifts his own glass.  "Now how do I respond to that?  On the one hand, he’s so bloody arrogant that he know how absolutely amazing he is in bed, and on the other, he is obviously devoting time to consciously thinking of how to make it even better for me." 

"So what did you say to that?"

"Nothing.  I mean, what is there to say?"  His smile is equally exasperated as it is affectionate at the memory, a reaction only John Watson would have for the man. "So, I listened to him ramble on about preservation techniques for a minute or two."

"You listened?  Just sat there all…" My hands wave in the general area of my crotch.  "…out and about, and listened?"  I find I’m more amazed than appalled.

He nods and takes a drink.  "And when he finished he got back down to business until I was fairly certain he was going to suck my brains out through my dick."

John starts snickering, and I find I am, too.  It’s not hard to do with John, to fall into a comfortable camaraderie, at least if he lets his guard down.  I don’t think that come easy to him.  It makes me wonder if this is what he was like before the mess in Afghanistan, but he’s always had it with Sherlock.  So, when I stop to think about it, we’ve always commiserated over Sherlock’s antics, but now they’ve simply expanded to include his sex life.

God help me, I don’t know if I should be flattered or appalled John has chosen me as his confidant.

Flattered, I decide, as I tell him, "You know, my ex was amazing when it came to that, at least before we got married."

"But not after?"

"Well, you know why they say every woman has a smile on her face as she walks down the aisle—because she knows she’ll never have to give another blow job in her life."  I grin broadly before it wavers.  "Although, now that she’s single again, maybe she’s fallen back on those skills."  I swallow down more beer against the only thought more disturbing than John and Sherlock having a good shag.

"I’m sorry," John starts.  "I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories."

"Eh," I dismiss, "water under the bridge.  It happens, one minute you can’t keep your hands off each other, the next she’s making out a mental shopping list in the middle of the deed, and then the next you’re filing divorce papers."

John frowns, and I realize how I’ve unintentionally compared my failed marriage to Sherlock’s habit of letting his mind wander during sex.  "But, hey, she was no Sherlock. I’m sure if you’ve got one tenth of his attention, it’s more than I ever got supposedly having her full attention.  Any man who can solve a murder while simultaneously mentally composing a violin concerto is more than capable of multitasking."

It doesn’t sound nearly as reassuring as I’d hoped it would, and it dawns on me that John, of all people, wouldn’t have even brought it up if he wasn’t worried about it on at least some level.

He nods, but I don’t really buy his agreement.

"John, I’ve known Sherlock a long time, and he’s never…hell, he’s never behaved remotely civil to anyone else, much less shown _feelings_ toward someone like he does with you."

I can’t say I’m _completely_ surprised that John ended up with Sherlock; after all, I’d seen the hints of the good man Sherlock evidently was with John.  But, dear God, the thought of being in a relationship with Sherlock is enough to give a person nightmares.

"Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re absolutely mental to be sleeping with him, and you probably deserve better because you’re a good bloke.  But if by some bizarre toss of the dice he’s the one that makes you happy, and he obviously does, then that’s all that matters."

"He does," John says with a self-deprecating laugh. "God help me, but he does."

"Then I take it back; you deserve him and all the insanity that comes with the package."  I tip my glass against his with a solid clink.

"And you deserve someone, too," he consoles.  "Someone better than your ex-wife."

"I do."  I nod in agreement.  "I also deserve a spectacular blow job."

"Sorry, I can’t help you there, mate," he grins then retrieves his mobile from his jacket pocket to check a text.  "Speaking of which…"

I grimace dramatically.  "Oh God, it’s bad enough knowing you’re having sex with him.  I draw the line at knowing when it’s going to take place."

"Actually, I’m just supposed to pick up take away from Imperial Garden on the way home."  The phone dings again as a follow up message comes in and he reads it.  "And apparently he called it in twenty minutes ago and it’s ready to be picked up now."

"Go on then," I wave him off, "get on with your tawdry life of sex and Chinese take away."

He stands and reaches into the back pocket of his trousers to pull out his wallet so that I can see the shape of his revolver under his jacket.  I sigh internally, the Detective Inspector in me knowing I should say something about it, but the friend in me a bit relieved that he’s carrying it.  Moriarty is still out there skulking about, and though he hasn’t shown any other sign of himself in the few months since John was shot at a crime scene, none of us have any doubt he’ll eventually crawl out of his hole someday.

It’s enough to have me offer, "Do you want some company on the walk?"

His phone chirps again, and this time when he looks at the message, he pinks visibly even as his mouth curls into a grin.  As if he suddenly realizes what he’s doing, he shakes his head.  "Uh, no, I don’t think Sherlock would care for me to bring anyone else home."  He glances back at the phone.   "And I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t care to see him nude."

"Jesus, John!" I exclaim, my face contorted in disgust.  "The line!  I’ve drawn the line and you’re crossing it!  Just go.  Go!"

He grins and pats my shoulder, "We on for next week?"

"If you can learn a little discretion, then I’ll see you back here next week."

With a final farewell, he heads out the door.  I watch him go with a grin, then turn back to my drink and the end of the match on the telly, silently congratulating myself on the fact that the Jack-in-the-box music has stopped playing in my head. 

Unfortunately, that lasts less than an hour before my mobile rings.  I look down to see Sherlock’s number in the display.

And the evening had been going so well.

"Are you inebriated?" Sherlock demands on the other end of the line before I can even say hello.

"What?  Not that it’s any business of yours—"

"I need you sober and in top form if you’re to be of any use to me whatsoever.  I know that’s a very high bar I’ve set, but I need it nonetheless."

"No, I’m not pissed."  I check my watch to see it’s been about forty-five minutes since John left. "And why are you calling me instead of—"

"Stop talking and meet me two blocks north of Baker Street."  His voice is tense, and I hear Bask barking in the background.  And since when does he ring me instead of texting?  Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle.

 _Up and down the city road_ …

"Sherlock," I ask warily, "where’s John?"

"If I knew that, would I need your assistance?" he snaps.

… _in and out the Eagle_...

I’m already standing and throwing a ten spot on the bar.  "Sherlock, what’s happened?"

… _that’s the way the money goes_ …

There’s a pause, and if I wasn’t talking to Sherlock, I would swear I hear a ragged intake of breath on the other end of the line.  "He’s been abducted.  Now shut the hell up and get over here."

P _op! Goes the weasel_.

* * * * *

It’s no more than a fifteen minute walk but I make it in ten.  The street is dark, with only the overlapping pools of light from the street lights for illumination, and it’s deserted except for Sherlock.  He’s barefooted and dressed only in his blue dressing gown.  He’s brought Bask, who is eagerly eating a dumpling out of the gutter from the messy array of Chinese food spread across the pavement. 

"I need you to pull surveillance footage from those cameras there, there, and there."  He points to three cameras I had no idea were even on this street, much less who controls them.

"Sherlock, back up a minute and tell me what happened."

"Oh, why can’t you simply do as I say?"  He’s pacing a small circle at the edge of the light, looking anxiously at his phone.  "This would be so much simpler if Mycroft weren’t in North Korea."

"North Korea?" 

It’s hard enough keeping up with Sherlock when he isn’t agitated, but when he is…

"You don’t think their rockets simply blow up on the launch pad on their own, do you?" He glares at the mobile in his hand.  "And since when is the threat of global thermonuclear destruction an excuse not to return your brother’s phone messages?"

I grab his arm and he glares daggers at me, but at least I have his attention. "Sherlock, if you don’t tell me what happened, I can’t help you."

"Look!" he points adamantly at the food on the ground.  "Look!"

I stare helplessly at the piles of noodles and broken open plastic containers around me. "So he dropped the bag of food he was carrying?"

"He was struck from behind," he tells me, pointing at a busted Styrofoam bowl in a puddle that looks to have been egg drop soup. "It was enough to daze him, have him stagger, and the soup at the top of the bag fall out. Then he turned to confront his assailant, dropping the bag so that he could pull his gun."  The bag opening is pointing away from their flat, which fits perfectly with the story Sherlock is deducing.  "But someone else grabbed him from behind…several someones given the way the bag and containers have been smashed, and they dragged him back to the van that would have been waiting here, something with sliding doors that would allow them easy egress, and a large opening to force a victim who was fighting back."  His teeth flash in a proud, savage smile.  "And he definitely fought back.  The blood splatter here would have come from a punch directed from someone with his back to the van and directed at someone facing him, most likely John broke his nose."

"And what about this blood mark?" I ask about one just on the edge of the curb.

I can see it all clearly in my head as Sherlock describes it—John staggering, dazed by the blow, dropping the food, pulling his gun, only to have it knocked away as two other men grab him.  He manages to get an arm free, swings and connects with his original assailant’s nose.  No doubt he would have paid a price for that, and the splats of red look like they’ve dripped right where John would have been standing following the punch. At least there isn’t enough to indicate he was shot or stabbed…at least not here.

Sherlock’s face goes blank, his lips press together in a hard line.  "Find the surveillance footage so we can identify the van."

I pull out my mobile and call into dispatch to request a team.  As I wait on the line, I wave a hand at Sherlock when Baskerville moves to start eating what looks to be broccoli beef.  "Oi, why don’t you keep that beast of yours from devouring the evidence?"

Sherlock raising an eyebrow at me.  "You honestly believe Anderson is going to find John based on the remnants of our dinner?"

I’ll be surprised if Anderson can find his way here without getting lost, but I’ll be damned if I admit that to Sherlock.

"It’s still a crime scene," I point out.

"Yes, and I have told you everything that can be gleaned from it.  What I need now is the video—"  He stops pacing when his mobile rings.  "Mycroft, it’s about time you called me back."

Whatever his brother says on the other end of the line, I don’t hear it, but apparently Mycroft hears the stress in Sherlock’s voice and doesn’t waste time with his typical condescension.

"John’s been abducted," Sherlock tells him concisely then pauses to listen.  "Within the last hour, two blocks north of our flat.  I count three camer…… good, five is even better.  We’re looking for a van….alright, just don’t be slow about it; we’ve already lost a great deal of time….yes, I’m aware of that, but in all likelihood they would have abandoned it somewhere and the Yard or my network can track it down."  There is one final pause before Sherlock agrees quietly, "I know he is," then hangs up.

By then, I have a team on the way, and tell him as much. 

"Brilliant," Sherlock remarks drolly.  "Now Baskerville can have dinner and a show; fortunately he’s very fond of dim-witted comedies."

"Hey, you called me for help.  Remember?"

"Yes, I did.  I called _you_ , not a dozen of Scotland Yard’s finest…" That last he frames in air quotes and caveats with an extravagant eye roll.  "…to come scoop chow mien and egg rolls off the pavement and place it in little sterile plastic bags with evidence numbers and chain-of-custody seals."

"I’m a Detective Inspector with Scot—" I argue.

"I didn’t call a Detective Inspector," Sherlock yells over me, "I called John’s friend!"

I go silent in shock at the admission, but before I can gather my wits to say anything, Sherlock’s mobile rings again.  I get the feeling he’s expecting it to be Mycroft calling back, same as me, but when he looks at the number on the screen, his breath hitches.  He turns it so that I can see—it’s John’s number.

"Put it on speaker," I order.

Both of us know the chances are slim that it’s actually John on the other line.  More than likely it’s his kidnappers.

Amazingly, Sherlock doesn’t argue, and he actually does put it on speaker.  "Hello." 

"Sherlock?"

He’d managed to keep his voice level on the greeting, but there is nothing but pure relief when Sherlock says, "John, where are you?"

I run my hand over my face in my own relief to hear John’s voice, but I soon realize we’re not out of the woods just yet.

"Locked in a box," John tells us, his words thick and slow.  "I may need a little help getting out."

"What box? Where?" Sherlock demands, hushing Baskerville who has started to whimper at the sound of John’s voice.  "Can you give me any information, any data at all I can use to find you?"

"It’s small, wooden, completely dark…I can only see it with the light from my mobile," John describes, groaning slightly in pain at the end.

My stomach twists as I mumble, "Oh, God, it’s a coffin."

John must have heard me, because he corrects, "No, not a coffin.  Slightly bigger.  A shipping crate maybe? I can’t sit up or even straighten my arms out to the sides, but it’s maybe a foot longer than I am." 

John pulls in a hitched breath and Sherlock’s eyes narrow.  "Your ribs, are they bruised or broken?"

John laughs lightly at the deduction Sherlock has made about his injuries, then moans again at the pain the action causes.  "Don’t think anything is broken.  Busted lip makes talking a bit rough.  You found where it happened, I take it?"

"Of course.  You know Baskerville can smell spilled Chinese food from a mile away." Sherlock pauses before asking, "Was it Moriarty?"

"Russians, three of them," John tells us.  "Mafia tattoos… I could see the top of a cathedral on the leader’s chest under his shirt …star on his neck…oh, an eye on the back of each hand.  He looked familiar…maybe from one of your old cases I cataloged?"

Sherlock frowns.  "How many spires on the cathedral?"

The tattoos have meaning, I know.  The number of spires can mean the number or years or times the man has been incarcerated, the star is a rank in the hierarchy of the system.

John thinks for moment.  "Four, I think?  One spire looked fairly new."

Sherlock nods even though John can’t see it.  "Bogatyr Zadornov.  I contributed to his arrest nine years ago.  He would have been up for parole this year.  If he obtained it, I could see him being rather… vengeful, as his cousin was killed during the arrest."

Sherlock looks meaningfully to me, and with a nod I pull my mobile to call in to see if Zadornov had made parole.  I don’t even dial the first number when I receive a text.

A _nswer your phone. ~MH_ ~

What the fu—

Before I can even finish that thought, my mobile rings with a blocked number, and I’m graced by the voice of Mycroft Holmes.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, how nice of you to take my call."

"Why are you ringing _me_?"

If Sherlock hears the shock in my voice, he ignores it as he continues to question John.

I have no doubt Mycroft hears the surprise and chooses to ignore it because…well, he’s bloody Mycroft Holmes.  "It appears my brother is rather preoccupied at the moment and I didn’t want to disturb his call from Dr. Watson."

How the hell does he know that? Then it dawns on me—the surveillance cameras.  I look around with a bit of paranoid dread. This isn’t the first time Mycroft has proven his Big Brother tendencies… Orwellian as well as sibling.

He continues speaking.  "Come now Detective Inspector, don’t look so alarmed.  After all, Sherlock did call me to provide the surveillance data from these very same cameras."

"So did you find something?" I ask hopefully.

"Was there any doubt that I would?" 

Even through the mobile, the self-assurance in his voice has me picturing him sitting in a wingback leather chair, picking a piece of lint from the leg of his perfectly tailored suit.  It’s an image in direct contrast with the one I’d had earlier of hidden concrete bunkers in North Korea.  Although, if anyone could manage both, it would be Mycroft Holmes.

A thought hits me and I ask, "What about the GPS on John’s mobile—"

"That was the first thing I tried," I’m told in a tone that sounds almost insulted I would even ask. "Whoever has him has disabled that feature on his mobile.  I’ll be sending you the images of the van and his assailants shortly," he promises.  "You will be able to plainly make out the license number, although the van was reported stolen two days ago.  However, we were able to trace it through various traffic cameras and the like to Finsbury Park, where, unfortunately, we lost it.  Still, it shouldn’t take the fine men and women of Scotland Yard long to locate it from there."

"Good," I exhale in my own relief to have a bit of positive news.  Then add an abrupt, "Thank you," since that seems appropriate to the occasion.  Then a little more awkwardly, "Sherlock will be happy to hear it."

"Come now, Detective Inspector, we both know there are very few things in the world that can make my brother happy."  He says the last as if trying out a new foreign word he’d just learned while on holiday.  "The primary of which is currently being held by a Russian mobster who was only just released on parole a few weeks ago."

I suppose that call into the station won’t be necessary now, although… "How did you know about Zadornov?"

"It’s amazing what you can learn about a person once you have their photograph.  Like the names of the two other men who helped abducted Dr. Watson.  I’ll send all their information along with the photos of the van, although I don’t believe I’ll be sharing the video of them beating John rather severely in the street.  It’s for the best that Sherlock not see something like that at this moment.  Don’t you agree?"

I steady my voice and steel myself with the years of crime scene experience I have under my belt.  We’d figured John had been beaten, but to hear it confirmed makes my stomach twist.  However, Mycroft was right; if I felt this way, there was no telling what Sherlock would do if he saw the video.  I clear my throat and push down my personal feelings.

"Well, if the van helps Sherlock find John, then it will definitely make him happy."

"It won’t help him," Mycroft tells me with a rather sad finality. "Which is the main reason why I called you directly."

"What do you know about where they are holding John?" I ask suspiciously.

"I assure you, if I knew where John was, I would tell you in an instant.  I would deploy one of my own teams and save you the trouble and my brother the danger, but I don’t know.  I only know the men who have him are brutal savages who want nothing more than to hurt Sherlock, emotionally as well as physically if they can."  He sighs heavily and murmurs, "This would be so much easier if I were currently in London."

"Right, you’re off blowing up Korean missiles." 

Another sigh, this one in exasperation.  "And people wonder why I have never offered Sherlock a position in the ministry."

Yeah, I’m sure Sherlock’s inability to filter any thought in his head, even state secrets, is why that never happened. I can only imagine the number of international incidents we’d have on our hands if Sherlock were a diplomat. 

"No doubt those people have never met him in person," I scoff.

"No, but you have met him, more than that, you know him, his moods, his rashness. That is why he needs you.  He trusts you, more than he is ever going to admit."

"Once he gets John back, he’ll be fine," I assure.

"And if he doesn’t?"

I scowl at the question.  "That is not an option."

"Indeed, it is not, which is why you need to keep an eye on him, Detective Inspector.  You will need to watch his back, as they say, since John Watson is not there to do it for him."

"Sherlock can handle himself.  He went after a dozen or more of Moriarty’s men, what are a few _Russkaya Mafiya_ compared to that?"

"Oh, I don’t expect you to protect him from the Russians; I expect you to protect him from himself."

Now it’s my turn to sigh and run my fingers through my hair in frustration.  "I don’t know if that is even possible," I tell him truthfully.

The last time John was in danger, Sherlock had faked his death and gone on a globe-trotting, vigilante spree.  What the hell did he have in mind this time when someone actually had John in their possession?

"It’s simple, really," Mycroft provides.  "Rule number one: don’t let him out of your sight.  Rule number two: don’t let him anywhere near a firearm.  And rule number three: keep him off the roofs of tall buildings.  With that as a guide, I’m sure you can figure out the rest of it on your own.  Now, I’ll be sending you the stills of the van shortly."

Before he can dismiss me entirely, I stop him to ask what’s been at the back of my mind this entire time.  "Wait!  Moriarty…is he involved with this whole mess?" John may not have seen him, but it doesn’t mean he’s not involved.

There is a pause on the other end of the line, long enough that I start to think perhaps he already disconnect.  Finally, Mycroft says in a very calm, very controlled voice that makes my skin prickle.  "Jim Moriarty is my concern now, not yours."

In other words, he had no fucking clue where the bastard was or what he was up to, but God have mercy on the man’s soul when Mycroft found him.

"I’ll be in touch soon, Detective Inspector," he says in a tone with a finality to rival the way my phone suddenly goes dead.

I barely have time to process the conversation, much less my new role as Sherlock’s nanny, before John’s voice pulls me back to the real issue at hand.

"I don’t remember much of the ride in the van," he is saying.

In other words, they beat him into unconsciousness.  The way Sherlock’s jaw clenches, I see he didn’t miss that subtlety either.

"When I woke, I was in the box and found I still had my mobile in my pocket.  The first thing I did was call you."

"And your captors?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing since I’ve been awake," he informs us.

The beep of my phone indicates the photos Mycroft promised have arrived.  I click them open and show Sherlock the image on the screen.

Sherlock nods in understanding, not even questioning how I have them.  "Listen to me, John; we’re going to find you.  We have a lead on the van--"

John interrupts the reassurances, his voice is harsh but lowered as he suddenly says, "Sherlock, I hear voices."

"Can you make out what they’re saying?" I ask in my own loud whisper, earning me a glower from Sherlock.

"It’s Russian," he responds.  "I only ever learned how to order more vodka or find the loo, and it’s neither of those."

He’s two phrases up on me with that much Russian, but apparently Sherlock doesn’t have the same limitations.

"Hold your mobile to the side of the box so I can hear," Sherlock orders, then listens closely, silently mouthing the few words he’s able to make out.

"What are they saying?" I ask, still whispering, although I can hear the sirens, indicating my team is getting close.

Sherlock glares me into silence, before closing his eyes in concentration, still repeating the words even as the sirens grow louder, until he abruptly opens his eyes and disconnects the line.

"Why the hell did you do that?" I demand as the first car pulls to a screeching halt a few feet from where we stand.

"If I could hear them through the connection, don’t you think they may have been able to hear the circus coming into town?"  He waves an annoyed hand at the cars with their sirens blaring before actually flipping up the collar on his bloody dressing gown and turning abruptly.  "I need to see my tailor.  Baskerville, come."

I blink as he starts storming down the street, the hound fast on his heels after gobbling down one last dumpling.  I follow after, jogging to catch up.  "Not that I don’t think you need to put on some clothes, Sherlock…" He actually looks down at his limited wardrobe, as if realizing for the first time what he’s wearing, or not wearing, for that matter. "…but what did you hear the kidnappers saying?"

He rolls his eyes at my question.  "If I actually spoke Russian, do you think I would bother wasting time popping in on my Ukrainian-born tailor?"

"You don’t…" I start in shock.  "Sherlock, what the hell were you doing back there if you weren’t listening to what they said?"

"Who said I wasn’t listening?"  He doesn’t slow as he reaches the end of the street.  "I was listening very carefully so that I could _remember_ what they said."

"You can remember all they said?" I ask incredulously. "Without speaking the language?"

He taps the side of his skull.  "Room 23."

What the bloody hell does that mean?  But before I can ask him, or stop him from turning down the corner, Donovan is yelling for me.  I turn to see Sally raise her arms in the universal symbol of ‘what the fuck do you want me to do’?  With a sigh and final glance at Sherlock continuing down the street, I turn to walk back to Donovan and the others.

I’m not even halfway down the block before my mobile rings again, once more with a blocked number. I grimace but answer it, "Lestrade, here."

"Rule number one, Detective Inspector, do not let him out of your sight."  This time the calm is hanging on by a thread.

"I just need to give my people their marching orders—"

"Do you know how much paperwork is involved in removing a D.I. from his current assignment and placed on indefinite administrative leave without pay?"

I cringe, then cringe even more when I remember he can see my reaction.  But I don’t even have a chance to answer.

"I assure you, it is not even enough to be an inconvenience." Mycroft practically purrs the threat.

"Right. Rule number one; I’m on it."  I close my phone and yell to Donovan, "Set up a perimeter.  Have Anderson start collecting evidence.  I’m forwarding some photos of the van we’re looking for and its last known location.  Get a team on it.  I’ll be back as soon as I can."

Her eyes widen in surprise that I’m not staying and she yells back, "Where are you going?"

"To see a tailor."  I ignore her demand of what and why and start off in the direction Sherlock had headed. 

I’m halfway down the next block where Sherlock had turned before I realize I have no idea where I’m going.  My phone chimes as a new text comes in with an address. Mycroft.  I can add him to the list of things that make my skin crawl, along with jack-in-the-box clowns.  They have a lot in common really, when you stop to think about it-- same unnerving smile that makes you wonder what he’s really planning, same disconcerting way of popping up when you least expect it.  Why the hell isn’t he in a bloody box instead of John?  Add a crank and creepy song and he’d be right at home.

I’m suddenly struck by the disturbing thought that maybe Mycroft can read my mind, or at least deduce what I’m thinking from the look on my face from the surveillance cameras.  And if that isn’t the stuff of nightmares and conspiracy theories, I don’t know what is.  I decide to break into a slow jog, quickly questioning my wisdom in choosing to eat steak and chips at the pub a few hours ago, considering that sicking up on the pavement might at least garner a bit of sympathy from Mycroft.  I quickly decide that while _Sympathy_ for _the Devil_ might have been a hit song for the Rolling Stones, sympathy _from_ the Devil wasn’t likely to happen.

P _leased to meet you.  Hope you guessed my name_ …

Great, now I have that bloody song stuck in my head.  I suppose I should be happy to have something besides _Pop Goes the Weasel_ rattling around in there.

* * * * *

Sherlock is just coming out the door as soon as I jog up.

"Why are you here instead of helping Anderson catalogue soy sauce packets?"

Apparently, he isn’t interested in the answer to his question, seeing as he barely even looks to where I’m standing with hands on my knees, gulping air, and trying to keep my last meal from ending up on my shoes.  Baskerville tilts his head with a quizzical huff before he decides he’s not interested either and trots to catch up with Sherlock.  Glaring at the nearest surveillance camera I can spot, I straighten and do the same.

"Did you decipher what the Russians said?" I manage to ask.

"Yes," he responds succinctly even as his eyes flicker to his mobile he grips tightly in his hand.  "Now, why are you here?"

"You said it yourself that my people wouldn’t find anything more than you already have," I evade.  "It seemed like the best bits of new information we might gain would come from what you overheard from the men who took John."

He slows enough to regard me with narrowed eyes.  I almost expect him to tilt his head and woof at me like Bask had.  Instead one corner of his mouth curls in a disgusted snarl.  "Mycroft," he grumbles before starting to walk again.  "Whatever he threatened you with, ignore it."

"What?  He really can’t follow through with having me fired?"

The maliciousness of his snort removes what little comfort I had gained from his order to ignore Mycroft. 

"Oh, he can definitely do that, a lot worse actually.  I simply want you to ignore it, go back to where your people are wasting their time on the pavement near my flat, and stay out of my way while I find John."

"You called me, remember?"  Regardless of Mycroft’s threats, there is no way I am letting him run off and try to find John alone.  After all, John is my friend, too.

"To find the van.  I have that information now plus some that will help me even more.  So don’t take it personally…or do, if you prefer, it’s of no consequence to me… but you are no longer of any use to me in this investigation."

"Look, Sherlock, I know how much John means—"  He glares, as if daring to finish that sentence, and I actually take a step back, but I can’t stop now.  "All, I’m trying to say is that I care for him just as much as you do."

This time he steps in close enough that I can see spots of color forming on his cheeks in the pale glow from the street light.  "No one, _no one_ , cares for John as much as I do."

"I didn’t mean—"

"No one," he repeats in a low growl.

"Don’t you think they know that?" I try to reason in another way.  "I may not be the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, but even I can figure out that Zadornov specifically chose John because he knows how much you bloody well love him, and they want to use that to their advantage."

He pauses a beat, staring me down, before his face goes aloof once more and he resumes walking briskly.  "I work better alone."

"Like hell you do," I scoff.  "You brought John along to that first crime scene precisely because you don’t work better alone."  He doesn’t stop walking, but he at least slows, so I press my advantage.  "I know I’m not John, not by a long shot, but let me play the part until we get him back.  I’ll even tell you that you’re bloody well brilliant now and again."

"John does more than stroke my ego, you know."

"Well, I’m sure the fuck not stroking anything else," I warn.

And then the most amazing thing happens—Sherlock laughs.  At first it sounds like it is against his will, then he gives in and lets it bubble out of him.  It doesn’t last long, but he stops and looks at me when he asks, "John talks about us?  When you two go out for drinks?"

"Yeah, he does," I admit, then stare at my shoes.   "Enough to make me squirm a little bit."

"And what he says, it’s…good?" 

It’s almost unnerving to hear Sherlock sound unsure of himself.

"Yeah, it’s good.  God help him, you’ve driven him around the bend, because somehow you make him happy, Sherlock.  That’s just one more reason why you need me to help you."  With I sigh, I tell him, "I saw him while you were gone all those months.  He was fucking miserable without you."

"I never wanted that," he speaks so quietly, I almost don’t hear him.

"Well, wanted it or not, it happened, and there’s no way I’m going to let you run off and get yourself killed and put him through that again.  He’d never forgive me if I did, and I’d never forgive myself for letting it happen."

He’s looking at the mobile in his hand again, as if willing it to ring.  Finally, when it doesn’t, he looks up and down the street.  "Can you find us a car?  There isn’t a blasted cab to be had on this street at this time of night."

"I can get us a car," I assure.  "Just tell me, where are we going?"

He shakes his head.  "When you have the car.  If I tell you now, you’ll feel obligated to tell your people and I won’t risk John’s life having them roaring in like they did on Baker Street."

I hesitate, knowing he could be right about cops spooking these guys, but at the same time knowing two men against however many Zadornov may have, and a probable trap on top of that, is lunacy.

"Oh, look, there’s a cab now," Sherlock states matter-of-factly, raising his hand to the approaching vehicle.

"Alright, alright," I yank his hand down, and now I’m the one taking the lead down the block back toward Baker Street.  "I’ll get us a car while you get dressed."

"I’m not wasting time dressing," he informs me.  "Not when they could be moving John at any moment."

"You’re not running around London in nothing but a dressing gown, either," I insist.  "Are you even wearing pants under there?"

"I was expecting John to return with Chinese take away at any moment; of course I’m not wearing pants!" he blurts out, waving his arms in a way that almost demonstrates his declaration he’s made loud enough to have the forensics team stop and stare from almost a block away.

"Well, there is no way in hell I’m chasing after the Russian mob with you not even wearing your undies."

"If you must know, I hardly ever wear—"

I cut him off with a grimace and waved hands.  Dear, God, and I thought John was the reigning champ of too much information.

"One more word, Sherlock," I warn with crossed arms, "and I swear that I will have you arrested for lewdness and indecent exposure."

"I’m not even exposing anything!"

I ignore his argument and call over my shoulder, "Anderson, get over here."

Sherlock’s eyes narrow dangerously.  "You wouldn’t dare."

"Wouldn’t I?" I challenge and jut my chin in Sherlock’s direction when Anderson appears beside me with a questioning expression.  "Place Mr. Holmes under arrest."

"What?"  Anderson blinks in surprise, but then seems a bit more excited with the prospect.  "Really?"

Sherlock growls in frustration but turns on his bare heels to storm back toward 221B Baker Street, to hopefully dress.

"Should I follow him?" Anderson asks.

I roll my eyes at him.  "You’re not even a badged officer; you have no authority to arrest people.  Now back to work with you… with the lot of you," I yell to the rest of the crew on the street. 

Anderson turns morosely, but I stop him when I realize I’d taken a cab to the pub.  "Wait a second.  Give me your keys."  When he hesitates I stress, "Official police business."

Donovan overhears that and strides over.  " _We’re_ on official police business here."

"Look, Sherlock thinks he has a lead and one way or another he’s going to follow it.  Isn’t better that I go along with him so he doesn’t make things worse than they already are?"

"How do you know he’s not leading you on a wild goose chase?" Donovan asks.

"Are you insinuating Sherlock had something to do with John’s abduction?"  I lean in close, menacing.  "Because even for you, Sally, that is one arse about faceaccusation." 

I’m still not sure if I’ve completely forgiven them for the role they played in Sherlock’s faking his death.  But in the end, we were all just pawns in Moriarty’s schemes, and we’re all just human, even Sherlock.

Sally backs off, raising her hands in a mollifying gesture.  "I’m just saying the freak isn’t the most rational person around, and when it comes to John, he’s even more of a freak than usual." 

"Especially when it was someone from Sherlock’s past that supposedly abducted John," Anderson adds in a mumble, earning him a glare from me.

Donovan ignores Anderson and continues on.  "You saw him; running around in a dressing gown.  Can you even trust his judgment now?"

"All the more reason for me to go with him," I point out then pull my mobile from my pocket when it dings with an incoming text.

R _ule #1.  Is it really so hard to remember?  ~ MH_ ~

Bloody fucking hell.  I do not have time for all this bullshit, and unfortunately for Donovan and Anderson, they are the only ones I can pull rank on.

"Last time I checked, I was in charge here," I snap.  "Now give me the soddingkeys and get back to work."

The keys drop into my hands just as my mobile rings.  Now what?  But I frown in confusion even as I immediately answer it when I see the number.

"John?  What’s going on?"

"Is Sherlock with you?" he asks just above a whisper.

"Not yet, but I’ll be with him short—"

"Good," he tells me, "Don’t tell him you’ve spoken to me."

"What?" My brow crinkles in confusion.  "John, we have a lead, Sherlock thinks he knows where they’ve taken you."

"He can’t come after me," John insists. 

"Of course he can—"

"They left me my phone."

"Yes," I agree, reaching the front door to their flat, "and thank God for that, else we might not have been able to figure out where they’re keeping you."

"Why did they leave my phone, Greg?  They took my gun but left my phone.  They knew the first person I would call would be Sherlock.  I may not be a true consulting detective but I’m not a complete idiot."

With a sigh that he’s finally figured out what Sherlock and I already had, I try to talk reason with him before I head up the stairs and within earshot of Sherlock, "John, he knows it’s a trap.  He doesn’t care."

"Yes, well, I do care.  He’s already faked his death because of me, there is no way I’m going to be the cause of his real one."

"And neither of us is going to let the bastards who have you kill you, which they will do unless we find you."  There is silence on the other end of the line.  "John?  You still there?"

When he speaks again, I hear him fighting to control the emotion in his voice.  "I can’t… I can’t do it again, Greg.  Nine months nearly did me in."

I run a frustrated hand through my hair.  "What am I supposed to do?  I can’t keep him from looking for you and I can’t handcuff him to the radiator; he’ll just pick the bloody locks.  Never mind he’s the best chance of finding you alive."

"I’ll feed him bad information," he decides suddenly.  "He’ll be looking someplace else."

"That may keep him away, but it doesn’t help you any," I point out.

"That doesn’t matter." 

"Like hell it doesn’t."  I find myself glowering at the phone.  "This is not a choice between you living or Sherlock.  You’re coming home tonight, John, and so is Sherlock so you can get up to whatever perverse tawdry things you two do on Chinese takeaway night."

"It’s not really that perverse—"

"The line, John!  You have to learn to respect the damned line!  Else we will have serious words after we find you and bring you _both_ home.  Do I make myself clear?"

He sighs, not answering directly, but at least has one thought for his own wellbeing.  "You said he had a lead, send some of your men.  Just keep him away."

Unfortunately, as good an idea that it is, I can’t follow up on it.

"He won’t tell me where the lead actually, well, _leads_ ," I tell him in my own frustration.

"What?"

"You know Sherlock and how bloody well obstinate he can be," I explain.  "He’s convinced if anyone shows up besides him, that lot will punish him by killing you.  Not that I necessarily disagree with him about the need for stealth, but it’s taken everything I have to convince him to let me tag along instead of him running off after you alone, half nude, in a cab."

" _What?_ "

I don’t even get a chance to respond to John’s growing dismay before my phone chimes with another text, and I give myself one guess to figure out who sent it.  Sodding Mycroft…but that gives me an idea.

"John, I think I know who can help."  If he wants Sherlock to stay away from the Russians, Mycroft better be willing to supply boots on the ground to help.  "I’ll text you when I have something.  In the meantime, call Sherlock and let him know you’re okay before he does something even more rash than usual."

There’s a long pause on the other end, and I can picture John weighing whether or not he should call and possibly lead Sherlock to his death or risk being killed himself.

"For God’s sake, John," I cut him off, "If there are two things Sherlock can’t stand it’s not knowing something and you in danger.  I’m sure you can imagine what’s going through that overactive brain of his.  Now call him."

Once he says he will, I disconnect and read Mycroft’s text.

A _nthea is printing those forms now ~ MH_ ~

Stepping back onto the street, I glare at the nearest surveillance camera, hold up my phone and mouth the words, call me.  My mobile rings almost instantly.

"Here’s the deal," I say without any greeting.  "Sherlock thinks he knows where John is being held.  As soon as he tells me where, I’ll let you know and you send your team to rescue him.  In the meantime, I will keep Sherlock clear.  Got it?"

There’s a pause before Mycroft finally says, "I’ll be standing by for the location."

Behind me, the door flies open and Sherlock bursts out, shirt still unbuttoned under his coat, but at least he’s wearing trousers and shoes.

"Kidnapped?" Mrs. Hudson demands.  Baskerville’s leash is held tight in her one hand while the front of her own dressing gown is clenched closed in the other.

"No time to explain, Mrs. Hudson," he dismisses before looking down sternly at the mutt whimpering and pulling against his restraints.  "Baskerville, stay," he orders firmly, before reaching down to scratch a floppy ear.  "I’ll bring him home, I promise."  The way his eyes flick to his landlady, I know he’s speaking to more than just the dog.

"You take care of yourself, too, dear," she calls, and earns a quick wave over Sherlock’s shoulder in acknowledgement.

I fall into pace beside him as he deftly works the buttons on his shirt, then he follows as I jog across the street to the waiting car.  Once I’m behind the driving wheel, I ask, "Right; so where to?"

He juts his chin in the direction of Marylebone Road to get us started.  "The men I heard through the phone mentioned Landguard.  Zadornov had previously been involved with human trafficking for the Mafiya, shipping young girls and boys out in cargo containers through the Black Sea to the Port of Flexistowe.  He was arrested at the Landguard Terminal there."

"That’s over an hour away," I point out.  "There’s no way they’ve had time to transport John there."

"Not yet, but they had a receiving warehouse here in London, in Eade Road area, where they unloaded their cargo…at least those who survived the trip."

"Eade Road isn’t far from where Mycroft lost track of the van." 

He ignores my observation, quickly answering his mobile when it rings.  "John?"  He closes his eyes when he receives an affirmative answer, takes a deep breath.  "How are you?"

"Put him on speaker."

His response to my request is to turn his back slightly to me and tell John that we’re on our way, _without_ putting him on speaker.

I take advantage of his distraction and a lorry blocking the road to quickly text Mycroft… _Z’s wrhs. Eade Rd_.

R _esponse team deployed.  ETA 8 min.,_ flashes across my screen in return.

Brilliant.  It should take us close to twenty minutes to get there, which should give Mycroft’s men plenty of time to secure John before we even arrive.  When my mobile rings as we’re rounding Finsbury Park, I’m hoping it’s Mycroft with good news.

I was half right, at least.

"The Russians are dead," Mycroft announces darkly.

Not surprising, considering the type of team Mycroft deployed was no doubt heavily armed. "Well, that was always a possible outcome."

Sherlock narrows his eyes suspiciously, sitting up from where he’s been slumped in the passenger seat for the past several minutes since disconnecting from John once more.

"My men found them that way.  Executed. Two shots to the head each," Mycroft clarifies. "And no sign of John anywhere in the warehouse."

* * * * *

I can’t be sure if Sherlock is more pissed off about me tipping off Mycroft’s men or the fact that he was wrong about John being here.  The fact that he ignores us all equally means he may not have decided yet himself, or he’s just too busy taking in the evidence of the scene.

"He wanted me to find John."  Sherlock’s angry voice echoes off the concrete walls enclosing the near-empty warehouse space.  All that’s here besides the two of us are five well armed men in tactical dress, the white van from the surveillance photos, and three dead Russians. Raising his face to the ceiling, Sherlock yells even louder, "He wanted me to find John!"

"Yeah, I get that," I tell him.

"Obviously you don’t," he snaps then walks over to jab an inpatient finger at one of the dead bodies.  " _He_ wanted me to find John."

Zadornov, I was guessing by the tattoo that remained unblemished on his chest.  Couldn’t say the same about the bastard’s face, or the other two men lying in pools of their own blood.

"So, where is John?" I snap back.

"Precisely."  Sherlock throws his arms open to encompass the entire space and spins around in growing agitation.  "Where is John?"

It’s then that something clicks.  "Wait a minute; where _is_ John?" 

Sherlock kneels by the nearest body and pulls on a latex glove before tapping his finger in the blood and studying it closely. "These men have been dead well over an hour, closer to two."

"That was before John called," I point out.

"Probably right after they arrived here in the warehouse."

"So whoever shot Zadornov took John."

"Obviously."  By his tone, Sherlock isn’t impressed that it took me so long to reach that conclusion.  "But why?"

I shrug with a shake of my head.  "Could be Zadornov was doing the job with someone else and they didn’t want to split the ransom.  Wouldn’t be the first time someone decided splitting the money four ways wasn’t as good as having it all for themselves."

"If they wanted to take John for ransom, we should have heard from them by now," Sherlock explains with little patience.  "And if they wanted him for bait for me, why isn’t John here?  And if that’s the case, why kill Zadornov since he would have eagerly killed me onsite? "

"Maybe whoever did this didn’t want you dead."  I know I’m grasping at straws now, but at this point there isn’t much else to do. 

Sherlock’s brow is furrowed in thought, and he narrows his eyes at the van.  "John said three mean attacked him, and Mycroft sent photos of the three men."

"Yeah, so?"

"The three men who were in the _back_ of the van with John," Sherlock clarifies.  "The three men who are dead."

It dawns on me what he’s getting at.  "Then who was driving?"

"Who indeed?"  He stands to move abruptly to the driver’s seat of the van, coat billowing out behind him.  A few seconds later, his hand beckons impatiently.  "Evidence bag."   Once I hand one over, he emerges with a bloody tissue.  "It appears our double-crossing assassin had a bloody nose."

"Did John maybe overpower the guys in the back and attack the driver?" I suggest.

Sherlock ignores me as he pushes the bag in my hands and moves to the rear of the van.  "Tools, tools, tools," he’s mumbling as he tears through the back.

All I see is evidence raining out of the van to clang loudly on the concrete floor.  "Hey, what’s all that about?"

He pulls out a tire jack, a socket set, a length of chain.  "John is trapped in a box, a closed wooden box.  What’s the most common way to secure a wooden box?"

"Nail it shut," I answer.

He leans out the back of the van to point at the mess he’s made on the floor.  "Where’s the hammer?  The nails?"

I frown as what he’s saying sinks in.  "This lot didn’t put him in the box?  But the men who have him spoke Russian, mentioned the docks--"

"Knew exactly the right things for me to see and hear to lead me here, to this exact spot even though he took John away."  He climbs out of the van and scours the room from where he stands.  "There is something here for me, a message, a sign…he left something meant for me to find."

"Who left something?" I demand, following him as he returns to tearing through the back of the van.  "Sherlock, you’re not making any sense."

"Sense?  Sense?  Of course it makes no sense, but he doesn’t want it to make sense.  None of the best games make sense, but they have rules.  There are always rules in his games."  Giving up on the back, he moves to the front of the vehicle to reach under the front seats to find take away containers.  Tossing them aside, he opens the glove box, tossing out papers haphazardly.  "He wants to bully me into playing with him again, and the only way he thinks he can do that is to hold my toys just out of reach."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, you don’t mean who I think you mean.  Do you?" 

But I have my answer when Sherlock pops the bonnet open on the van, and there sitting down in the engine block is a replica of the very crown Moriarty was wearing when he was arrested, only this one is made out of intricately folded chocolate sweets wrappers, the same brand used to poison the children of the American Ambassador, with multicolored Jelly Tots glued on for jewels.

* * * * *

When John finally calls back, it’s my mobile that rings, not Sherlock’s. 

"They’re moving me," he whispers frantically into the mobile.  "Where are Mycroft’s men?  They should have been here by now, shouldn’t they?"

"John, you weren’t where Sherlock thought you were," I explain.

Sherlock stops walking up the steps to the entrance of St. Bart’s and looks back at me, eyes widening in a moment of confusion to realize I am talking to John before narrowing dangerously.

"He was wrong?" John voice rises in surprise.

"No, you had been there to begin with…" I start, then decide to simply cut to the chase.  "Look, John, Moriarty has you now, not the Russians."

All l can hear on the other end of the line is a sharp indrawn breath.

"Give me the phone," Sherlock demands, the flat of his hand appears so abruptly I’m not sure if he wants me to place the mobile there or if he plans to slap me with it.

Holding up a finger to tell Sherlock to wait, I attempt to reason with him.  "John, you need to talk to Sherlock—"

"No.  No, you need to keep him away—"

"You know that isn’t going to happen.  Not with Moriarty and definitely not with Sherlock."

I barely get that last bit out before the mobile is yanked from my fingers.

"I would demand to know what the hell you were thinking trying to keep information from me that I might use to find you, but it is quite obvious you are not thinking at all.  Perhaps it is because your brain was sufficiently rattled during your abduction to cloud your normally better judgment.  Regardless of the reason, your little conspiracy with the Detective Inspector is at an end.  So, you will tell me what you were attempting to conceal from me.  _Now_ , John."

I can’t hear John’s response, but I can guess.

"Of course he’s using you to get to me," Sherlock scoffs as he paces a short path back and forth along the pavement in front of St. Bart’s.  The same pavement where, if I look close enough, I could probably find a stain of his supposed blood from his alleged suicide.  "That’s the only reason he took you.  You’re an invitation and Moriarty is expecting me to RSVP and there is only one response he’ll accept. You are fooling yourself if you think he will simply tire of waiting for me to show up and either let you go or kill you."

There is another pause as Sherlock listens to John’s argument.  Although, given the way he stops and throws an arm wide in frustration, he isn’t buying into it.  "No, the first thing he will do is send me a computer link so that I can watch while he tortures you, because it wouldn’t be sporting to not let me participate in at least some way. And if I still can’t find you, he will simply let you rot away in that godforsaken box with no food or water for a week before sending me another link to watch him do it all over again.  Then when he’s really angry at me for not playing along, he’ll return what’s left of you…alive but broken in so many horrible ways that I’ll never really have you back ever again."

I find an uncontrollable shudder running down my spine at the description and thinking even Moriarty couldn’t be that cruel, although Sherlock sure the hell is to be telling John something like that.

"How do I know?" Sherlock resumes pacing.  "Because that’s precisely what I would do if I got my hands on someone Jim Moriarty—"  He stops in his tracks, looking up at the roof of the hospital where he’d stood all those months ago, then around at the surrounding buildings, until his face breaks into a wide smile.  "John, you’ve done it again.  I’m not sure how I came up with half my breakthroughs before I met you.  Tell me everything about being moved.  Were you being lifted?  Do you hear any sort of equipment?  A truck maybe?  John?  John!"

With an infuriated growl he shoves the phone back at me and stalks up the stairs and through the door.  John has obviously hung up on him, so I double-time it to catch up with Sherlock.

"He is the most stubbornly noble man I have ever met in my entire life," Sherlock snarls, shoes clicking on the buffed lino under our feet.

"Most people would consider that a compliment," I point out.

"Most people don’t have to live with it on a daily basis," he counters in a low grumble.

"Look, you have the crown.  You said Moriarty wants you to find John, so obviously the crown will lead you to him so you don’t even really need John to tell you anything."

By the roll of his eyes, I can tell Sherlock thinks my reasoning is off.  "The crown won’t lead me to John; only John can lead me to John.  John and I…"  He sighs with a shake of his head.  "We’re supposed to be working as a team, that’s what Moriarty wants us to do, it’s what he expects us to do.  It’s the one thing I have that he doesn’t… or didn’t.  How did I not see this sooner?  He was flaunting it right before my eyes all that time.  All those associates of his, all his henchmen taken down, except for one."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?  If the crown doesn’t lead us to John, where does it lead us?"

Sherlock’s hand pauses on the door to Molly’s laboratory, "To Moriarty’s pet human."  Then he pushes through before I can demand what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and within seconds he has Molly skittering through the lab following the orders he’s rattling off in quick succession.

* * * * *

"Why, of all the places you could be at this very moment, are you at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital with my brother?  Rule number three, Detective Inspector.  Rule number three!"

Whatever calm façade Mycroft had been maintaining before has now vanished.  Maybe it was not finding John in that warehouse; maybe it’s the appearance of Moriarty catching him by surprise as much as me.  Maybe it’s the roof of this tall building, the very building that provoked rule number three in the first place, that’s pushed Mycroft over the edge in much the same way that Sherlock jumped from it.  Although, Sherlock has been very closed mouthed about exactly how he managed to jump from this building and survive while simultaneously convincing John he was dead.  And if John knows, he’s not telling either.

"Because Sherlock needed the lab here to analyze the sweet wrappers he found," I hiss into the phone. "And he needs Molly Hooper’s help to do it."

The pathologist in question looks up from where she’s using a glass tube to suck some chemical out of one vial and squeezing it in another.  As soon as she sees me watching her, she looks away quickly, almost guiltily.  And what would Molly Hooper, of all people, have to be guilty about?  Although with Molly, you never know.  She is a bit of a queer duck, but then again, anyone who chooses to spend most of their days with dead people tends to be on the peculiar side.  Still, she’s unwaveringly devoted to Sherlock, which once again leaves me boggled at how so many relatively sane people, myself included, the man has managed to pull into his orbit when he has a personality that makes spitting cobras seem downright snuggly.

I’m starting to suspect he emits a pheromone every time he speaks, although I’ve not given up entirely on my rather complex theory regarding subliminal messages, hypnosis, and his cheekbones.

Mycroft snorts derisively through the phone.  "Sherlock doesn’t _need_ anyone’s help."

"Is that so?" I counter, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind me so I don’t have to whisper anymore.  "Where, exactly, does that leave rules one through three, then?"

"Allow me to rephrase," Mycroft says with eerie politeness.  "Sherlock would never _admit_ to needing anyone’s help."

"Has he ever told you he loves John?" I challenge.  "Has he ever said the words, ‘I love John Watson’, or even a close facsimile to those words in your presence?"

"I fail to see what that—"

"No, he hasn’t."  I continue to talk over him.  "Hell, I doubt he’s ever even said those words to John.  But there isn’t a single person who can doubt that he does.  Most of what Sherlock says, he doesn’t say with words.  And considering how many words he actually does say, that’s quite an accomplishment."

The first thing Sherlock had said after finding that fucking sweet-wrapper crown was, "Take me to Bart’s."  Not, "take me home," or "take me to the Yard."  Those other places have basically the same equipment as St. Bart’s, but the one thing they don’t have is Molly Hooper.

"Jim Moriarty, St. Bart’s, those ridiculous sweet wrappers… It’s all too reminiscent of the last time Moriarty graced us with his presence.  I do not like this in the least," Mycroft admits.

With a snort, I exclaim, "And you think I do?"  Looking back into the lab through the window in the door, I see Sherlock studying something through the microscope.  Molly stands devotedly beside him, handing over various items when Sherlock’s hand turns palm up in silent demand.  "I won’t let him out of my sight," I promise with the same blasted loyalty to Sherlock I see writ plain on Molly’s face.

Seriously, mind controlling fungus inhaled from a powder?  A Manchurian Candidate type response to him flipping up the collar on his coat? What could possibly cause us all to act like this?

"See that you don’t," Mycroft instructs, then is gone.  Back to spy on me with the cameras spread throughout the hospital that he no doubt has access to, or perhaps to blow up a communist regime’s missile pad.  A pleasant evening of espionage capped off by a series of spectacular explosions; just another day in the life of Mycroft Holmes.  Fun times to be had by all, unless you’re me, that is…or a North Korean rocket scientist.

I spend the next half hour or so making phone calls.  From Donovan, I learn that all the noodles and dumplings on Baker Street have been successfully collected, labeled, and catalogued.  If nothing else, I suppose I can take credit for keeping the streets of London clean of Chinese take away while adhering to a strict chain of custody protocol.  Although, I would have been a better steward of the British tax revenues, and accomplished just as much, if I’d simply let Bask finish gobblingdown the evidence.  Their work at Baker Street complete, I dispatch them to the warehouse to collect any data from the abandoned van and dead Russians.  By now, Mycroft’s men should have finished their sweep of what Sherlock left behind.  It feels a bit like letting the vultures in after the lions and hyenas have stripped the zebra carcass clean, but at least I was there to represent Scotland Yard from the get go, so that’s something anyway.

After a final check in with my office to see what other crime has befallen the city, I dispatch a second team to work a dead body discovered in a bin on the West End.  On any other day, I might ring Sherlock to give the crime scene a look see, but today he’s otherwise occupied.  Hell, I’m otherwise occupied, too, or I’d already be standing by the bin myself.  I have a momentary twinge of guilt that John and Sherlock are taking precedence over other cases, but it quickly subsides.  I’ve taken advantage of Sherlock over the years, and God knows I’ve paid the price for doing it, professionally as well as psychologically.  Still, it doesn’t mean Sherlock can’t call in his markers now and again and get my undivided attention.  It also doesn’t hurt his case that his brother could have me on the dole with a single signature.

In the end, I’d do it anyway for John alone, because he’s a decent man and a good mate.  Not to mention, if something were to happen to John, I’d be stuck with Sherlock on my own again.  Of all the commendable traits John Watson possesses, his ability to provide a buffer between Sherlock and the world at large may be the one I admire and respect the most.  The Queen should decorate him with some Royal Order for distinguished service to the bloody Realm for that alone.

Once I’ve completed my administrative tasks, I reenter the lab and rub my hands together briskly. "So, how can I help?"

"Ah, yes, Lestrade, just the man I’ve been waiting for.  See this chair here?"  Sherlock waves a hand absently at a seat near where he’s working.

Moving eagerly to where he indicates, I start to sit.

"No, not there," he corrects. "A little further to the right."

I scoot the chair a bit, only to have him make a shooing motion as he tells me, "A bit further.  A little more.  Not quite yet."  It’s not until I’m on the opposite side of the lab that he looks up and smiles.  "Perfect."  Without another word to me, he turns back to his microscope.

I can only roll my eyes.  "Sherlock, surely there is something else I could do beside just sit here."

"But you’ve mastered that task so brilliantly as part of your daily routine, Detective Inspector, why should I wish to mess with perfection?"

"I want to help," I protest.

"You are helping, by staying out of my way and letting me work in peace." 

"I can do more than sit quietly in the corner."

"Apparently you aren’t capable of even that, seeing as you have yet to either sit or remain quiet."  Sherlock raises condescending eyebrows at me…and, yes, his eyebrows can be condescending all on their own.  "But if you believe you can contribute, tell me what you imagine you could possibly do in a chemistry lab with an HND in Business Studies as your only credentials."

I open my mouth to argue that my experience working with the CID should count for something, but no words come as I glance around the lab and realize, in this setting, they really count for very little.

"Molly," Sherlock asks with condescending cheerfulness… and yes, his cheerfulness is as bloody well condescending as his eyebrows, "is the mass spectrometer calibrated yet?  If not, perhaps DI Lestrade will be willing to undertake that task."

"I think you two have things well in hand," I mumble and drop into the seat.

"So nice of you to finally take notice," he responds drolly.

With that dismissal, I do the only thing I can think to do-- I pull out my phone and check my Facebook account.  Within a few minutes, I’m clicking a link in a post by my niece and watching a video of cats meowing the theme to _Game of Thrones_.  Singing cats…it’s the little things in life, it truly is.

The sun has risen by the time Molly moves to the side of the lab where I’m still sitting.  I’ve progressed from social media updates to playing Angry Birds on my mobile.  She pours a clear liquid into a tube and places it in what looks to be a very expensive piece of lab equipment.  Not wanting to disturb her during a crucial experiment, I wait until she finishes her work to approach her.

"How’s he doing?" I ask quietly when she turns on the apparatus.

"So far he’s found part of a bug in the crown and done some research on the sweet manufacturer that hasn’t turned up much," Molly informs me.  "He’s analyzing the blood on the tissue now, as well as looking for any residue on the wrappers, and attempting to determine where the glue may have been purchased."

I frown as thoughtfully as possible, as if any of that means anything to me at all, then lean in and ask again, "But how is he _doing_?  You know… emotionally?"

"He’s…well…"  She hesitates, looking back over her shoulder to where Sherlock is working; as if she gives her honest opinion she will somehow be betraying him.  "He’s angry," she finally admits.

"Can’t say that I blame him, not after what Moriarty has done."

Molly shakes her head.  "Not at Moriarty—well, of course he’s angry at Moriarty; that goes without saying—but he’s also angry with John."

All I can do is nod in understanding.  "Can’t say as I blame him for that either.  I’m a bit hacked off at the bugger, myself."

"John’s not being fair.  Sherlock has done so much for him, sacrificed everything to keep him safe, and now he won’t even tell Sherlock what he needs to find him.  John has to know how much this is upsetting Sherlock."

I can’t help but wonder if Molly isn’t so much defending Sherlock as she is attacking John.  It couldn’t have been easy on her to find out that the man she had been enamored with for all these years was now officially off the market, with his flatmate no less.  And since her loyalty for Sherlock hadn’t seemed to fade in the least, that left only one target for her ire.

"You can’t really put it all on John.  He’s just doing what Sherlock did when he faked his death for all those months, only this time John’s the one trying to keep Sherlock safe."

"Then if anyone should know what it’s like, it would be John," she argues.

Sherlock’s voice breaks in before I can say anything else.  "If you two are quite done discussing the dysfunctional hypocrisies of my and John’s relationship, I could use some assistance."

"Of course," Molly offers eagerly.  "What do you need?"

"Lestrade, text John.  Tell him to call me as I need him to answer a few questions." 

"And if he refuses?"  Given how he hung up on Sherlock when he asked for the same information earlier, that’s a distinct possibility.

"He tells you about our blowjobs over a pint and pretzels, for God’s sake," he announces candidly without even looking up from the microscope.  "How hard can it be for you to get him to give a few clues about where he’s being held hostage?"

"I don’t know, you actually _give_ him the blowjobs and he won’t tell you anything," I snap back.

It’s then I realize Molly is standing with her mouth hanging open at our crude language.  As soon as she makes eye contact with me, we both instantly flush pink.  I clear my throat and quickly pull out my mobile as Molly looks from me to Sherlock then back to me before quickly deciding her shoes deserve her undivided attention.

"If it helps, tell him that my questions have nothing to do with his current location."  That being said, Sherlock turns his attention to his lab assistant.  "Molly, I’ll take that tea now." 

Thank God for that, because it at least gives the poor girl something to do besides think about Sherlock and John in the act of…the other, because it is obvious the worn out trainers she’s wearing today aren’t doing the job.  Just as the mobile in my hand isn’t doing a very good job of distracting me from those same thoughts.  Those two really needed to learn to filter now and again.

Molly jumps at the request, still looking away quickly when she glances my way and catches my eye.  "Oh…right, sorry!"  Pulling on heavy leather gloves and slipping a protective shield over her face, she pops open the piece of lab equipment.  Using a pair of tongs, she pulls out the now boiling tube of liquid and pours it into a waiting mug then drops in a tea bag.

So much for crucial experiments.

My text I send to John is answered a few seconds later. 

"If you aren’t looking for information about him," I relay after reading the text, "what are you looking for?"

"Information regarding Colonel Sebastian Moran," he tells me, making a note on a piece of paper beside the microscope.

"Who’s Sebastian Moran?" Molly asks in confusion.

I don’t need to ask, I’ve been briefed on the man who eluded Sherlock for all those months he was away.  He’s a retired Army colonel, although whether the retirement was his idea or the Army’s remains a mystery, as does what exactly he’s been up to for the past year or so.  Sherlock is convinced he’s Moriarty’s second in command…that is when he isn’t convinced the man was a shadow created by Moriarty to lead Sherlock down dead end trails.  According to official record, Moran was an accomplished sniper, although most of the missions he led are still classified.  After leaving the Army, Moran ran a private military security firm, providing civilian security teams for use in Iraq and Afghanistan, often recruiting from the men he had commanded during his deployments.  Then about the time Moriarty supposedly died, Moran retired his post and seemingly vanished.

When neither Sherlock nor I answer, Molly asks again.  "Who’s Sebastian Moran?"

I busy myself with the text, watching Sherlock out of the corner of my eye as he seems to choose his words carefully.  "A ghost.  One in which Jim Moriarty has taken a particular interest."

It is only a few seconds after sending John the message regarding Moran that Sherlock’s mobile rings.  Thankfully, he puts it on speaker so he can continue to work on his sample.

"John, how nice of you to call," Sherlock says drolly.

"Unbelievable."  I can imagine John’s eye roll.  "You are seriously copping an attitude with me now."

Sherlock squares his shoulders.  "I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.  I’m not copping anything."

"You have no idea how right you are about that," John snips back.

Sherlock leans down close to the phone, as if it were a substitute for John’s face.  "If you’re alluding to copping a feel, then you are right, John, I’m not copping a feel because you won’t help me find you. Accordingly, it is impossible for me to cop you, a feel, or anything else for that matter!"

"All right, fellas," I try to appease, "now is not the time for this."

John, however, is having none of it.  "Moran, Sherlock?  Really?  Not only is Moriarty involved, but you think you’ve located _Moran_?  Last week you decided he was just a persona created by Moriarty, like the Richard Brook character."

"That was just one of several working theories I’ve had about Moran over the past year," Sherlock defends before his ruffled tone softens.  "He’s close, John.  Wouldn’t you agree that is would be best if I found him before he surprised me?"

There is a pause on the line before John finally sighs.  "What do you need to know?"

"Elevated levels of antimony in the blood," Sherlock tells him.  "The levels are too high to be from a chronic exposure unless Moran is soldering equipment or manufacturing fire proof apparel on a regular basis, neither of which seems likely for a professional sniper.  Therefore, it must be an acute exposure, but why would someone be exposed to antimony at high levels?" 

"If it’s elevated but not lethal, he’s very lucky," John notes.  "It doesn’t take a great deal to kill a person."

"Lucky or controlled," Sherlock corrects, leaning against the desk.  "What if the exposure is intentional?"

"Why would someone intentionally expose themselves to a lethal substance?" I question.

Sherlock looks up at me.  "There are only three reasons to intentionally expose oneself to a chemical agent—to kill time, to kill yourself, or to kill something in you.  Since there is no recreational uses of antimony of which I am aware, that means it must be one of the later, and I don’t think Moran is the suicidal type."

"Pentostam," John supplies.  "It’s an antimony-containing drug used to treat a parasitic infection caused by the bite of the Sandfly." 

Sherlock lifts a tiny wing with a pair of tweezers that he had recovered from within the folds of the crown. "Phlebotomus alexandri," he announces.

"I’ll take your word for it," John tells him before continuing.  "We rarely had to use the drug in Afghanistan, but there were the occasional infections so we kept it in stock, at least to start treatment before shipping the infected lad home."

"Wait," I interrupt.  "If what you’ve said about Moran is true, he hasn’t been actively working in Afghanistan for months, maybe even a year."

"It can stay hidden for weeks, even months," John tells me.  "And if it wasn’t completely wiped out during the first round of treatment, it can recur."

"Would the infection cause nosebleeds?" Sherlock asks, eyeing the tissue he’d found in the van.

"No, not that I’ve ever seen in the Gulf region.  There are flies in South America that can cause deterioration of the nose and face in severe infections, which would cause bleeding, but I’ve never seen those cases personally.  It’s mainly limited to a nasty skin lesion if it doesn’t go systemic," John explains. "But the drugs may have that as a side effect.  You require daily IV injections for three weeks.  Depending on how far along he is in the regimen, it could be causing all sorts of problems."

"Daily IVs," Sherlock ponders.  "So he would require a doctor to oversee the treatment?"

"Yes," John confirms.  "If he’s not admitted to hospital, he should be coming into clinic daily for the treatment."

Straightening, Sherlock checks his watch.  "The dermatology clinic?"

"Most likely," John agrees before realizing what he’s just verified and what Sherlock plans to do.  "Wait, Sherlock, no.  Moran is a trained killer; you can’t just go runni—"

"I’ll text you shortly," Sherlock promises before disconnecting the call to cut off anymore of John’s protests.  His mobile rings again almost immediately; he silences it before dropping it back in his coat pocket and hitching his head at me.  "Third floor.  If we hurry we’ll catch him before he arrives for his appointment."

Sherlock ignores Molly calling after him, "Should I keep running the analysis, then?"

All I can do is shrug my shoulders at her and chase after the flaring black coattails quickly receding down the hall.

"Oi, Sherlock!"

He doesn’t stop but he slows enough that I can catch up with him.

"How do you know what time he has an appointment?"  Because damned if I know.

"The crown," he states simply as he pushes the call button for the lift.

"The crown?"

"The crown." 

My expectant expression earns me a long-suffering sigh, but I’m hoping that he might actually say, oh I don’t know, _more_.

He finally does explain his reasoning once he steps into the lift.  "The Imperial State Crown has eight emeralds and eight sapphires set around the base of the crown with the Cullinan II Diamond in the front and the Stuart Sapphire in the back.  Whereas the crown Moriarty made only has five each of the smaller stones plus the larger two for a total of twelve—twelve jewels to represent twelve points on a clock with the diamond at six o’clock and the sapphire at twelve.  The Black Prince’s Ruby should align directly above the diamond and directly below the St. Edward’s Sapphire set in the cross above, but they are skewed with the offset indicating a time of seven twenty.  Now it could mean seven twenty in the evening, but the last appointment in the clinic is at six.  The first appointment isn’t until seven thirty, but a military man would rather not show at all than be late, especially one who has been trained to be in position before his target arrives.  Too early and he ends up milling around in the hallway before they open the clinic doors, drawing attention to himself.  No, a man in his profession, someone who lurks in the shadows, who wears oblivion as a cloak, would avoid that at all costs.  So, seven twenty, seven twenty-five at the latest, it is."  Sherlock checks his watch.  "He’s probably waiting in the lobby to catch this very lift right now."

I stare at him in stunned silence as the doors open on the third floor.  "That is damn well impressive, Sherlock."

He steps out into the hallway.  "John calls me brilliant."

"John also says you are spectacular in bed," I offer with a shrug.  "I have my suspicions that he tends toward exaggeration."

His lips twitch as he glances at me sideways.  "No, he really doesn’t."

I can’t comment personally on his sexual prowess, nor do I ever want to be able to do so.  Ever.  As to his deductions, however, I have to agree with John-- he is rather brilliant.

But you didn’t hear that from me.

* * * * *

When we arrive on the third floor, Sherlock steps off the lift and turns to face the closing doors. I, however, am ten steps down the hallway before I realize he’s not beside me.

"Aren’t we going to the clinic?" I ask, my thumb hitching over my shoulder in the direction of the dermatologist.

With a quick check of the time, Sherlock adjusts his coat with a disappointed frown in my directions. "Nooo."  To prove his point, he doesn’t move from his spot in front of the lift. 

"We’re just going to wait here, then?"

"Brilliant deductive work, Detective Inspector.  I’m sure the reason you were passed over for Chief Inspector had nothing to do with your highly impressive arrest record and everything to do with those indiscretions with confidential police records."

"How did you know about…?" I start, then quickly drop it.  I’m sure the color of my tie or the buff of my shoes or the number of sips I took from my coffee cup told him everything he’d needed to know about my missed promotion.  However, he was probably correct in everything he said.  "And just a reminder, those indiscretions were _you_ , Sherlock."

"As were your extraordinary number of arrests," he points out in return.

Unfortunately, he’s not wrong there, either.  My statistics for closing cases had definitely impressed my superiors; discovering I had been using a fraudulent consulting detective to do it had not.  Never mind that Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, his reputation had been soiled.  Faking his death, no matter how noble the reason, hadn’t helped matters any, for him or for me.

He brightens when the lift dings as it arrives on our floor.  "Ah, yes, here we are."

Even with John as Moriarty’s hostage, there is no denying Sherlock is relishing the challenge of the case.  Not that he wouldn’t take a quiet evening at home if it meant John was safe, but he is completely in his element when he’s on the hunt like this.  There is gleam in his eyes, an electrical energy to his every movement.  Hell, he is practically humming just standing here waiting for the doors to the lift to open.  The fact that he’s close to netting Moran can only make the experience even more exhilarating to him.

The doors slide open to reveal a man of average height and build, dark hair, of an age with Sherlock, wearing a dark jacket, jeans, and a slightly startled but pleasant enough expression when he see two men just standing in the doorway. 

When we don’t move, he asks, "Is this the fourth floor?"

"No," corrects Sherlock with an almost appreciative quirk to his lips, "the third."

"My mistake then," the man says. "Going up?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," Sherlock tells him and steps into the lift.

I have no choice but to follow him, but really, is this normal looking bloke actually Sebastian Moran, international assassin and second in command to Jim Moriarty?  Sherlock apparently thinks so, leaning in close to reach an arm around him to press the button for the top floor when the man pushes four.

The man peers over his shoulder at Sherlock as the doors close, and Sherlock simply smiles politely back.  But when the man turns back to stare straight ahead,  I see the smile fade from Sherlock’s face, see his grey eyes narrow dangerously on the back of the man’s head as he pulls his scarf from his pocket.  I have a curious thought of ‘what the fuck?’ as I consider the possibility that Sherlock plans to strangle him right here in the elevator.  That quickly turns into a much more belligerent ‘what the _fuck_?’ as Sherlock shoves me hard into the wall of the lift that has stopped abruptly.

What happens next is a bit of a blur as it happens so fast, but there’s a gun in the man’s hand, which has been twisted into a near impossible position behind the man’s back by Sherlock’s scarf that is wrapped securely around it.

"What the fuck?" I demand, this time out loud, as I pull my own gun.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock sounds a little winded as he twists his scarf even tighter, but otherwise unfazed, "I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"How the hell did you do that?" I demand, my gun trained on Moran who doesn’t even struggle against the hold Sherlock has on him.

"Do what?"

Like I can’t hear the hint of a gloat in his question. 

"That thing with the scarf and the gun," I clarify needlessly.

"Did you think I was on holiday those nine months?"

I barely have time to roll my eyes when Moran shifts backwards, throwing Sherlock off balance enough for Moran to twist and have his gun pressed to Sherlock’s forehead.

"Drop it!" I order tensely.  In these close quarters, any shot would be fatal.  It’s just a matter of who gets theirs off first.

"You shoot me, Holmes here will be dead before I hit the ground," Moran threatens.

Sherlock, however, the only one of us unarmed, is also the only one who looks relaxed.  "Don’t worry, he won’t shoot me.  Jim will be very cross with him if he does.  He’s not allowed to hurt me, or John, or Mrs. Hudson, or you for that matter.  "

"Me?" I ask in surprise.

"Come now, you didn’t honestly believe Sergeant Claremont scooped the lotto and retired to Spain, did you?"

"Claremont?" He’d been assigned to my precinct less than a month when he’d suddenly struck it rich soon after Sherlock’s supposed death, and resigned with a letter post marked from the Costa del Sol.  "What?"

Sherlock crinkles his nose in disgust.  "Seriously, Lestrade, my handwriting looks nothing like his." 

" _What?_ " 

I’m honestly not sure if I’m more alarmed I had a supposed assassin in my midst or that Sherlock did me a service and apparently disposed of him.  I swear to God, it’s amazing how many times I find myself in the position of trying to decide if I should thank Sherlock or bloody well arrest him. 

I’m saved from making the decision this time by Moran’s mobile ringing, or more specifically, playing _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Moran’s shoulders slump the tiniest bit in exasperation to hear the tune.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at Moran.  "You’ll want to take that.  I know for a fact Jim doesn’t take well to being ignored."

When Pat Benatar starts belting out the chorus again, Moran’s eyes flick toward me before he shakes the scarf off his wrists enough to reach his free hand into his pocket to retrieve the phone.  "Bit busy right now.  Can I ring you back?"

I can’t hear what Moriarty is telling him, but I can see the way Moran’s jaw clenches as he listens.  "You’re sure?" Another pause as he listens before finally saying, "Right."  Dropping his mobile back in his pocket , he offers up the his gun to Sherlock.  "Jim says, hi."

The entire exchange had taken about fifteen seconds, but Sherlock had watched it all with a curious expression.  Taking the offered gun, he concludes, "He didn’t tell you why you had to leave the crown in the van.  You didn’t know it would lead me to you."

"Seems fair now that I think about it."  Moran just shrugs.  "Watson didn’t know Chinese take away would lead him to me.  But you did…well, maybe not exactly _when_ it would happen, but you had to know it would happen eventually, and still you just let him wander around--"

Whatever more Moran planned to say is cut off by Sherlock’s fist connecting squarely with his face.  Moran seems genuinely surprised that Sherlock would punch him, but there’s an evil gleam to his eyes when he touches gently at his busted lip and his fingertips come away red.

Moran spits blood on the floor. "I’ve killed men for less than that."

"So.  Have.  I," Sherlock growls darkly, then slams the button on the panel to start the lift moving again.

Moran snorts with a shake of his head.  "You’re right; Jim would be ticked off if I killed you…now.  But the thing about Jim is he eventually comes round.  He gets bored, he has a little fun, then he gets bored again.  _Then_ , he gets down to business. Eventually, he’ll get bored with you, Holmes.  When he does, I have a kill brass with your name on it. I have them with all your names on them." Moran turns to look at me, making a gun with his index finger and thumb, and firing it with a wink.  "Just waiting for the day."

Work as a cop for as long as I have, and you start to find those sorts of threats rather hollow, especially when I’m still holding my own gun on the person spouting them.  But having just found out that one of my own men had been an assassin assigned to kill me, I can’t help the chill that passes through me.

Still, I do a decent job of hiding it as I pull out a pair of handcuffs and secure his wrists. "Ever think that someday he’ll grow bored with you?"

Moran shrugs again, an easy, blithe motion even with his arms locked behind his back.  "I’ve spent half my life in the Middle East and Africa…Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia…you learn pretty damn quick that everyone dies.  Some just do it sooner than others."  He grins, a disturbing mixture of pride and arrogance and enough mental instability to be legally certified as completely and totally mental.  "Some even do it because of me."

"Is that why you are no longer in the military?"  With a shove, Sherlock pushes Moran through the doors that open onto the top floor of the building, causing him to stumble with his hands cuffed.  "Some people died at your hand that weren’t sanctioned to die?  Quite a few someones, I think."

Moran’s eyes slide momentarily to me, keeping tabs on me and my gun, as he walks alongside Sherlock down the hall. "I found the Army had begun to stifle my creativity.  It was a mutual parting of the ways." 

"Oh, but Jim Moriarty relishes it, doesn’t he? Fawns over your work like a doting mother does her preschoolers drawings of green skies and polka dotted unicorns?" Now Sherlock’s mouth slides into a condescending smirk.  "Tell me, does he mount your ‘kill brass’, of which you are so proud, on the refrigerator door?  Or perhaps you string them on colored yarn for him like a macaroni necklace."

"I would, but it’d be too heavy for him to wear."  Moran looks back at me again as Sherlock opens the door to roof access.  "Because of all the people I’ve killed," he explains needlessly.  "That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Detective?  That I love to kill."

"I think you’ve got some serious issues," I tell him honestly as we start up the stairs.

I hear my mobile buzz indicating a new text message.  One guess who it’s from and what it says:  _Rule number three!_   Mycroft won’t be the least bit happy that we’re heading to the roof of St. Bart’s.  Not to mention Sherlock is in possession of a gun, thus breaking rule number two, as well.  Right now, however, Mycroft should just be happy that I’m still adhering to rule number one and keeping Sherlock in sight.

Ignoring my phone, I keep my attention focused on Moran.  "I also think what you do is a bit cowardly. Skulking in the shadows, hiding on rooftops and in windows; if you’re going to kill a man, at least have the bollocks to look him in the face when you do it."

Sherlock opens the door onto the roof of St. Bart’s and Moran follows him out.  "I’m going to let you in on a secret, Lestrade.  It’s not the killing that appeals to a sniper.  Any idiot can kill a man; all it takes is a rock, a spear, a club.  But only a sniper can kill one man and simultaneously terrify thousands.   If you ask me, that’s pretty fucking brilliant work if you can get it."

Turning a tight circle to take in the roof, Moran stops beside Sherlock and stares out across the street to a building opposite the hospital.  "I’ve had Watson in my crosshairs before, you know.  Twice actually; once at the pool when he was wrapped in Semtex…that was one of my first jobs for Jim… and once right there."  He moves a little closer to the edge.  "It’s a long way up and you without a scope… I doubt you could see him well at all.  He’d look like the tiny little man he is."

"John is anything but tiny," Sherlock counters calmly, surprisingly not rising to the bait.  With his hands locked behind his back, he looks very similar to Moran.  "Ridiculously short, to be sure, but a much bigger and better man than you or I could ever hope to be."

"I once waited three days for a bigger and better man to step out of a hotel in Mogadishu.  He never knew what hit him." He flashes that mad grin at Sherlock before turning his attention to the street below.  "If anything, that’s the down side of my job; it all happens so unexpectedly that I never get the satisfaction of seeing that realization on their faces of what’s about to happen.  But John Watson, he knew what was about to happen up on this roof, I could see it in his eyes, see the terror.  I’m almost jealous of you, Holmes, for being the cause of that."

Sherlock moves before I can make a grab for him, closes the few steps separating him from Moran, takes the black cotton lapels of Moran’s jacket in his fists and pushes until the sniper’s lying with only his lower back on the edge of the roof, and Sherlock has one knee braced on the same ledge. 

"Sherlock!" I snap.  "What the hell are you doing?"

With his wrist locked behind him, a good, sharp shove would have Moran tumbling to the pavement below.  In fact, Sherlock’s hold on him is all that is keeping gravity from doing the job for him.

"Making a proposition." 

Taking his mobile from his coat pocket with one hand, Sherlock snaps a quick photo of Moran more off the building than on, before pulling him off the ledge and throwing him to the gravel on the roof. Then he starts texting, mumbling aloud as he does.

"I’ll show you yours if you show me mine."

A few seconds later, his mobile chimes and he opens the message.  He pales and his lips thin into a sharp line as he stares at the screen. 

"Sherlock?" My mind is already screaming about mulberry bushes and monkeys before he turns the mobile to show me an image of a wooden box, what can only be _John’s_ wooden box, suspended high in the air from a crane. "Jesus," I breathe out at the sight.

"Where?" Sherlock demands angrily of Moran, squatting to press the phone into his face.  "Where is he?"

"You know that’s against the rules," Moran chastises in a disappointed tone.

But Sherlock has lost all patience and yanks him back to the edge.  "Where does Moriarty have him?"

"I can’t tell you," Moran tries again, the humor draining from his voice the same as the blood from his face as Sherlock pushes a little further.  Only Moran’s tiptoes are reaching the solid surface of the roof.  "You need me if you want to get him back!"

Sherlock’s face twists into an ugly sneer.  "Not if I can’t _find_ him."

"I can’t help you!" Moran exclaims desperately.  "Those are the rules!  You fucking know that, Holmes!  You might as well drop that box yourself if I tell you anything!"

With a frustrated growl, Sherlock pulls him back to his feet, then leans in close.  "Are you still jealous of the terror I can cause a person from this roof now?"

Moran doesn’t answer him, but as soon as Sherlock releases him, he stumbles back several feet from the ledge.

Sherlock starts pacing, staring at the mobile in his one hand as the other pushes deep into his hair.

"What do we do?" I ask, that fucking music playing over and over in my head.

Sherlock shakes his head and keeps pacing.  "I don’t know."

Well that response was totally unacceptable.  "Sherlock, what do we _do_?"

"I don’t know!" he yells back at me.  "Moriarty is playing a game, only this time it’s a team sport.  He and Moran against me and John, only John won’t cooperate and play along and give me one solitary clue to help me find him!"

"Do you even need John’s help?  I mean, how many of those cranes can there be in the city?"

"At the current moment, there are nineteen major construction projects taking place in London, of which at least a seven would have use of a crane of that size."

"Seven?  That’s not bad.  We can easily cover seven construction sites between Mycroft’s men and the Yard…"

Sherlock’s mobile beeps again, and this time when he presses it into my hands, the image of John’s box shows one of the supports has been released and it is only dangling from one end.

"It’s like he heard us talking," I exclaim.

Sherlock has already turned Moran face first into the gravel, a knee digging into the middle of his back even as he’s digging through Moran’s pockets to come up with the mobile he’d conveniently placed there after his call from Moriarty…and apparently left the connection open.

"Jim," Sherlock says into the phone, "you’re not exactly playing fair."

I motion for him to put the phone on speaker, which, miraculously, he does.

"And faking your death is fair?" Moriarty asks.  "By all rights, I could have killed all of them the moment you revealed yourself again.  That was our bargain, wasn’t it?  Your life for theirs?"

"What can I say?  When you pretended to kill yourself, I felt inspired to do the same."

"Always the bridesmaid, Sherlock, never the bride."  Moriarty’s voice morphs from sugary sympathy to mock excitement.  " _Although_ , that may change for you in the future, now that you and John have partaken of the love that dare not speak its name." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "Then by all means, don’t."

Moriarty continues as if Sherlock had never spoken.  "I couldn’t be happier for you, Sherlock, or for me, actually.  This has added a whole new level of nuances in you I could have only dreamed about in the past.  I have to be honest, though; white is not your color.  And your usual black…"  Moriarty sighs and his voice deadens.  "Well, that’s much more suited for a funeral."

"Are you having fun, Jim?  Playing your games?  Making up the rules as you go along?  Enjoy it now while you can, because I am only going to say this once.  If John dies, I won’t be attending funerals, or mourning, or trying to pick up the pieces and move on with my life.  John already gave you that little bit of theater when he thought I was dead.  But you won’t get that from me, because I won’t be doing anything other than hunting you down and killing you in the quickest most effective way possible.  There will be no melodramatic anguish for you to watch from afar, no cat and mouse chases, no toying with you, no torture to make it last a little longer.  Just you, dead, your body left to rot where it falls.  Game.  Over."

There’s a pause before Moriarty finally speaks.  "Like I said, Sherlock, so _many_ new levels of nuances in you…it’s like Christmas came early.  I have your package waiting for you; I just need to find a bow. Don’t forget to bring me mine when you come."  Then the line goes dead.

Sherlock’s face goes dead, too.  I expect him to throw the phone.  Hell, I would smash it to pieces then throw those, but he simply slides it into his coat pocket.

"What would you do after you killed Moriarty?" I ask him.

"What?"  He seems genuinely puzzled that I would ask him something like that.

"Let’s say, theoretically, Moriarty killed John, and then you found him and killed him.  What would you do after that?" I repeat.

He still can’t seem to take in what I’m asking.  Maybe it’s because he honestly hasn’t thought that far ahead.  Maybe it’s because the thought of losing John isn’t one he’s ready to accept.  But I don’t think that’s the case.

With a shake of his head, Sherlock dismisses, "It’s irrelevant."

"We’ll just see about that, now won’t we?"  Pulling out my own mobile, I dial John’s number.

"Shit!  Greg!" I can hear wood creaking in the background, a chain rattling.  "He’s got me fucking swinging in midair!"

"We know," I tell him.  "Moriarty sent us photos.  Your crate is hanging from a crane, and if you don’t tell Sherlock how to find you, he’ll drop you."

"I’m not—" John starts in, but I’ve honestly reached my quota of this shit.

"Alright, enough of being all noble and self-sacrificing, John.  I know you think you’re saving Sherlock’s life, but you’re not.  If you die, he’s going to die, too.  It’s just that simple.  He’s either going to get himself killed trying to kill Moriarty, or he’s going to kill Moriarty then off himself, or he’s going to round the bend and turn into something worse than Moriarty ever dreamed of being.  Bottom line, your Sherlock is gone the moment you are.  You know that.  You’ve always known that.  So do me, the Yard, and all of bloody London a favor, and just give him something he can use to find you."

"Moran?" John asks, sounding a little queasy, whether from concern or his current position as human pendulum, I’m not sure.

"We have him.  He’s not a threat for now."

"Sherlock?"

"Ready to throw Moran off the roof of Bart’s if anything happens to you.  In other words, he’s… Sherlock." 

John exhales heavily.  "What you’re asking me to risk…"

"I know, mate, but at least this way you’ll have a chance.  You’ll _both_ have a chance."

The phone vanishes from my hand as Sherlock yanks it away.  "John, it’s morning-- time for your daily piece of information from my time away.  That is if you still want it." 

This time Sherlock doesn’t put the mobile on speaker, so I can’t hear what John says.  I also have no clue what he means by John’s daily piece of information, but apparently John wants to hear it. 

"Very well," Sherlock starts, "there was a week where I didn’t record anything in my journal for you….yes, that’s the one.  I had told you previously that I was ill, but while I did have a head cold, it’s not exactly the reason why I wasn’t able to make journal entries.  It ends up that I inadvertently insulted the first wife of a rather prominent Saudi businessman, who was rather displeased with me, and I had to be hidden for several days by his second and third wives, both of whom despised the first, until it was safe to retrieve my belongings."  There is a pause before Sherlock finally speaks again.  "Don’t be ridiculous, John, they don’t have harems anymore.  Each wife has her own residence."  Sherlock rolls his eyes.  "Fine, I was hiding out in a harem, just like in _The Arabian Nights_ ; although I seriously doubt Ali Baba had access to satellite TV and an espresso maker.  I know you have more questions, each of which I can only assume will be more ridiculous than the last, and I will gladly answer each and every one of them as soon as I have you safe at home.  However, I cannot do that unless you give me one, infinitesimal clue as to where you are."

There is another pause and Sherlock’s expression of frustration and worry changes to one of relieved triumph, even though he asks, "What do you mean _different_ bells?"

I can’t hear John’s response but it’s enough to have Sherlock’s face break into a smug smile as he returns my mobile.  "He’s in Greenwich."  He’s already heading back toward the stairs, not even looking back as he reminds, "Bring Moran; we can’t show up at the party empty handed."

Through my phone, I can still hear John calling for Sherlock.

"John," I tell him, "hold tight.  We’re on our way."

He doesn’t sound the least bit happy about that news.  "Look, Greg…"

"I’ll watch out for him," I promise, yet again.

"I know you will, but now that it’s inevitable he’s going show up, can you maybe hurry it along?"

"Of course." I frown as I ask, "You okay? I mean, as okay as you can be considering?"

"I’ve just been in this bloody box so long."  He laughs self-consciously as he confesses, "The lease is up on the pints we drank at the pub."

"Well, don’t fill your boots just yet, mate.  We’re on our way." As I pull Moran to his feet, the inevitable happens and my mobile chirps, indicating I have another call.  I check the number with a sigh of frustration but no surprise.  "Gotta go, John, Mycroft’s on the other line."

"Dear God, I’m being held hostage and even I don’t envy you that," John tells me before adding more seriously, "Stay safe, both of you."

"Always," I promise before switching over to the other line.  "We’re leaving the roof," I tell Mycroft.  "By the stairs, even.  See, no harm, no foul."

"No harm, no…?" Mycroft’s voice actually rises in astonishment before dropping forebodingly.  "As it pertains to you, Detective Inspector, you are as premature as you are presumptive in your conclusions."

"Look, as much as I enjoy these chats, I don’t have time for this."  As we duck into the stairwell, I lower my voice to try to keep it from carrying to Sherlock.  "Sherlock’s puzzled out where John’s being held and we’re heading there now."

To no one’s surprise, I fail miserably at both convincing Mycroft the conversation is over and keeping Sherlock from overhearing.  By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs and step out into the hall, Sherlock is waiting to take my mobile through which Mycroft is loudly berating me.

"Hello, brother dear.  How’s Kim Jong Il?  He did?  That long ago?  Well, please pass along my condolences to the regime."  Sherlock doesn’t slow his stride toward the lift as he continues talking.  "Not that I honestly care, but I’m assuming your mission there is of the utmost importance to Queen and Country, and I’d hate to keep you from it any longer than I already have."  There is a pause as he listens.  "Yes, I do remember ringing you up for your assistance earlier--for some video footage as I recall--and yet you somehow interpreted that to mean providing armed men storming an abandoned warehouse."  Another pause as Sherlock presses the button on the lift.  "Yes, _trying_ to help and yet not being helpful in the least; I find that is so often the case with men you have more ammunitions than IQ points."  Sherlock gives a barbed look back at Moran with that statement.  "So let me be very clear this time—butt out.  Your well meaning, well armed men will, in all likelihood, get John killed, along with me and Lestrade."  The doors open but Sherlock doesn’t enter.  Instead his eyes narrow as he listens to Mycroft.  "You had your chance with Moriarty once, and for the lack of one miserable bullet on your part, John is once again a pawn in his petty games.  I can overlook what you did to me, but I will never forget what that did to John.  Keep your men clear of me today or forgiveness will be the least of your concerns."

Sherlock disconnects in an eerily calm fashion before he hands me back my mobile.  He steps passed where I’m holding open the lift and busies himself by pulling his scarf from his pocket.  "If he rings again, don’t answer it."

"That your brother, was it?"Moran takes a step closer to Sherlock.  "Now he’s a hard man to put sights on."

"Regrettably, I’m not fortunate enough to have the same problem," Sherlock tells him dryly.

"I could take care of that for you, if you like," Moran offers with a cocky grin.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  "How much do you charge?"

My eyes roll as the doors to the lift close.  "Sherlock…" I warn.

"It is simply curiosity," he assures.  "I rarely had a chance to actually speak to the assassins I met during my time away."

I’m not sure if he’s bragging, threatening Moran, or just stating the truth, but I step between Sherlock and Moran just the same.  "Well, you’re not talking to this one either.  You’ve got more important fish to fry, like figuring out what Moriarty wants from you to get John back."

Sherlock scoffs.  "Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade.  I’ve known what he wants since he first revealed himself to me after I returned."

My eyes widen at that revelation.  "I don’t suppose you’d mind sharing?"

Sherlock’s lips curve just the tiniest bit.  It’s an expression I know all too well.  It’s his I’ve got a secret and damned if I’m going to tell you what it is expression.

"Bloody hell," I murmur and barely stop from asking Moran for his rates myself.

* * * * *

There’s no doubt that the construction site for the University of Greenwich’s new Architecture and administrative buildings is where we’re meant to be.  For one thing, there are the different bells John mentioned—the University clock tower, nearby churches, the river boats—all within a few blocks and all of them would ring out in different tones and tunes. Of course, if that isn’t enough to convince us we are in the right place, the massive orange crane with the wooden box swinging about twenty feet in the air pretty much settles it.

"Now what?" I ask, unable to look away from the wooden pendulum above us.

"Now we retrieve John," Sherlock says calmly, but I can see the flush of anger that colors his cheeks at the sight of the crate holding John.  Turning up the collar of his coat, he walks through the opening in the chain link fence that surrounds the construction site.

The site should be crawling with workers, but as we walk past an unmanned forklift, I realize it’s eerily abandoned.  The backhoe and cement truck sit silent and empty below the skeletal iron framework of the buildings looming above us.   If anyone could shut down a job site just so he could have it all to himself to play with a crane, it would be Moriarty.  Although I seriously doubt Moriarty is here alone; in fact, I’m certain he has men stationed throughout the work site.  I catch myself glancing down to my chest expecting to see a red dot from an assassin’s rifle floating there. 

Moran, whose arm I have a firm hold on, doesn’t miss the glimpse I make.  He winks knowingly at me before hitching his head toward the rooftop of the hotel across the street.  Whether he’s honestly showing me where one of the gunmen is located or just pulling my leg, I can’t be sure.  But I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me survey the rooftop.  Not that it would do me any good to catch sight of the sniper if he were there, seeing as he’d have locked me in his crosshairs the minute we stepped out of the car.  Still, I won’t lie; the thought that someone is there watching us, and just waiting for the signal from Moriarty, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Sherlock, hands deep in his coat pockets, stops in the middle of the yard and stares at the box swaying above us. All I can think is that we’re so damned close, and yet Moriarty could still end it all while we standby helplessly.

"Do you know how to operate a crane?"

I blink in surprise when I realize Sherlock’s talking to me.  "No idea whatsoever," I tell him honestly.

"Read up on it," he orders as he pulls his eyes from John’s wooden prison and hands over his mobile with it already open to a website on the particular make and model of crane we’re dealing with.

Bloody hell.  I quickly scroll through the text and diagrams looking for key words such as, ‘operational safety’ and ‘controlled lowering’.  Unfortunately, there isn’t a section on ‘how not to drop a load whereby avoiding killing someone in the process.’

As I’m frantically looking over a schematic of the controls that have way, _way_ too many buttons and levers, _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ starts playing in Sherlock’s other coat pocket.

Beside me, Moran lets out a long suffering sigh.  "Jim thinks that’s fucking hilarious," he mumbles.

"If it’s so annoying, why do you put up with it? Or him for that matter?"I ask, barely glancing up from the operator’s checklist on the small screen in my hand.  How am I supposed to check for reeving of the cable when I have no bloody clue what it even is? 

Hands still cuffed behind his back, Moran hitches his chin toward Sherlock.  "Why do you put up with him?"

"Honestly?  He gets results," I confess.

Moran shrugs.  "Same with Jim."

I’m tempted to ask if Moriarty expects him to learn things like crane operations on the fly, as well, because this is not like climbing behind the wheel of lorry that at least _looks_ like a standard city car.  This is buttons and levers and knobs and whatever the hell reeving is…this is fucking ridiculous, is what it is.

Sherlock, meanwhile, answers the mobile. "Playing coy, that’s so unlike you. Or have you been reading too many spy novels while I was away and this a surreptitious drop point where I cuff Moran to a metal beam in exchange for John?"

" _Colonel_ Moran," Moriarty calls from within the half-formed building, finally stepping from the shadows to reveal himself.   He has his hands in his trouserpockets, causing his dark grey suit coat to bunch up around his wrists; if anything, he looks more dapper and relaxed as a result.  "Did you happen to notice that?  I have a colonel when you only have a lowly captain." 

"I’ve never put much credence in the chain of command, as you are well aware," Sherlock dismisses with an uninterested glance around.  "Besides, crowns and pips in the insignia—those are much more your style."

Moriarty steps closer, leaning in and studying Sherlock before a grin spreads across his face.  "You _did_ notice.  You’re practically seething with epaulet envy."

"All I noticed was that you found a very poor substitute for a John Watson of your own," Sherlock counters.

"He can’t be that poor; he does outrank him, after all."  Moriarty turns his attention to me for the first time.  "But it looks like you’ve brought a replacement of your own; a Detective Inspector this time.  Now who has the poor substitute for _Captain_ Watson?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the stress he puts on John’s military rank, even as Moriarty walks a slow circle around me, scrutinizing me with a critical eye.  "Do you have a stockpile of them?  Did you pull Greg out of the same closet where you found John? Does John know?  I mean, the body isn’t even cold yet, Sherlock."

Moriarty sounds scandalized, even though he waggles his eyebrows at me, and I realize what he’s inferring.

"What?"  I demand.  "No.  It’s not like that.  _I’m_ not like that."

With a tsk, Moriarty shakes his head.  "I don’t know, Greg, I’m fairly certain our dear Captain would have said the same thing a few years ago when Johnny came marching home from war."  He shrugs dramatically, hands still in his pockets, with an exaggerated expression of sympathy.  "What can I say? Sherlock is one sexy beast.  Even the straightest of men drop to their knees at the sight of him."  As if to prove his point, Moriarty does just that in front of Sherlock, placing both hands over his chest.  "My heart is yours, Sherlock.  Just say the word and it could be just the two of us-- no colonels, no captains, no detective inspectors-- just you and me.  The way things work best; the way things were meant to be."

"Is this what this is all about?" Sherlock refuses to look down at the man on his knees.  "Wouldn’t it have been easier to simply ask me out for drinks?"

"Standard pick up lines don’t seem to work with you, Sherlock.  What’s your sign? Come here often?  Kill yourself or I’ll kill everyone you ever cared about in the least…or cared about with every fiber of your being."  Moriarty turns to pointedly stare at the wooden box.  "I told you I could burn the heart out of you, but you wouldn’t believe it.  So maybe I can smash it instead.  And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be putting Captain Johnny back together again."  His lower lip curls down into a pout, index finger tracing an imaginary tear down his cheek, before his expression morphs into a devious grin. "But it would sure be fun to see what you would be when you tried to put yourself back together, wouldn’t it, Sherlock?"

"I don’t think you would like it," Sherlock warns.

Moriarty’s smile widens.  "I think I might."  Without looking away from Sherlock, Moriarty raises his hand, and the crane rumbles to life in a cloud of black smoke heavy with the dusty sweet smell of diesel.  He points his index finger skyward, and John’s box rises higher in the air.

I can see the block and tackle of the crane moving, the pulleys turning, like the crank on that blasted Jack-in-the-Box my Gran had.  The music starts up in my head again, only this time, the metal twang of the music box is replaced with the guttural growl of the crane engine.

H _alf a pound of tuppenny rice,_

I can’t stop myself from blurting out, "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock, for his part, remains silent as the crate continues to climb higher, but I can see he’s struggling for control, eyes widening, jaw clenched.  Finally he speaks.  "What do you want me to do?"

"You know what I want," Moriarty states impatiently.

… _half a pound of treacle_ …

"You want me to kill myself?  For real this time?"

Moriarty snorts and rolls his eyes.  "That’s sooo last year."

The crate continues to climb closer to the top of the crane boom, and Sherlock looks desperately from Moriarty to the box and back again.  "Isn’t it time we stopped playing and got down to business?"

… _mix it up and make it nice_ …

"That’s just it, Sherlock; I don’t want to stop playing with you."  Still not looking away from Sherlock, Moriarty turns down the finger that was pointing up.

The pitch of the engine rises, even as the box seems to be in freefall, dropping with alarming speed toward the ground, and all I can do is watch it plunge in stunned silence, waiting for the inevitable POP! of the weasel.

"NO!" Sherlock yells, staggering a few steps forward, hands reaching out as if he could catch it himself to keep it from crashing.

Moriarty makes a fist and the box abruptly stops about ten feet above the ground, close enough I can hear a muffled cry of pain and curse from John inside.

"Jesus, fuck!" I exclaim, my knees feeling deceptively jellylike in what turns out to be short-lived relief.  Because no sooner has the box stopped than it’s on its way back up again.

"Fine," Sherlock says desperately, "you want to play, I’ll play.  Just set the box _gently_ on the ground."

"Mmmm…" Moriarty, still on his knees, pretends to consider for a moment, continuing to point up. "I don’t think you really _want_ to play just yet."  He shakes his head in disappointment as the crane continues lifting the box. "And the real conundrum is how to make you want it.  I admit, I do enjoy our time together no matter if you’re in the mood or not, Sherlock.  But it’s just not as _good_ if you don’t want it as much as I do."

"I want to kill you right now," Sherlock grinds out. "I want that very much me."

"Boooring," Moriarty complains, lowering his finger again.

This time when the box starts to drop, Sherlock does the same to his knees, grabbing the lapels of Moriarty’s suit.  "Stop this!"

Moriarty isn’t fazed by the action, simply lifts his fist again and the box stops with a jerk once more.  "It was fun at first, Sherlock, watching you chase down all my associates, all my many, many minions around the globe.  But then you started missing Jooohn," he laments in a sing-songy voice, "and wanting to go home to hiiim, and it took all the sport out of it.  Honestly, Sherlock, if all I wanted was to see someone kill people, I’d just watch Bastian work."  Moriarty glances up at Moran with a grin.

"If John dies," Sherlock threatens in a low, tense voice, "the last thing you will see is me killing someone—you.  Right here on this spot."

Moriarty looks downright bored.  "Without you in the game, life isn’t worth living anyway."

Beside me, Moran exhales loudly and rolls his eyes.  "Christ, Jim, you’re like a fucking cat playing with its dinner.  Just kill them and we can get on with things."

"Enough!" Sherlock shouts.  I’m not sure if it’s addressed to Moriarty for what he’s doing to John or Moran for interrupting. 

Moriarty, however, ignores Sherlock and instead looks at Moran like a doting parent would a rambunctious child.  "You’re insatiable, Bastian, and so impatient.  Dependable, for sure. Efficient, without a doubt.  Nice to have around, but remarkably dull for all the same reasons…like cozy jumpers and brown shoes." His eyes turn up to the box.  "Isn’t that right, Sherlock?   When you don’t have those, you’re no fun at all."

Sherlock, for his part, looks like a rubber band strung to the point of snapping, and I have no bloody clue what’s going to happen if it breaks.

"Release John and I’ll play your ridiculous game."

"I’m just not feeling it."  Even though Sherlock still holds tight to the fabric of his suit, Moriarty lowers his finger once more, and down drops the box.

"I want it," Sherlock snarls in an icy tone, his eyes cold as stones as he gives Moriarty one solid shake.  "I want to humiliate you.  I want to rip away everything and anything that makes you happy.  I want you to be a nameless face in the crowd and know in your miserably empty soul you are completely alone.  I want you to break something you love and not be able to do anything to stop it.  I want to _beat_ you at your own game. " 

For a split second, I’m afraid Sherlock plans to snap Moriarty’s neck right here.  If he does that, we’re all dead. 

"Sherlock!" I grab his shoulder to draw his attention away from Moriarty and skyward to see the crate has stopped once more.  He flinches at my touch, and a visible shudder passes through him when he spots the box still swinging from the cabling, like a part of him, a very deep, dark part of him, had forgotten John was still up there.

"Oh, brav-oh!"  Moriarty smiles in delight.  "I think you might actually be telling me the truth this time."

"I am."  I can see Sherlock’s hands trembling where they’ve turned white from his grasp on Moriarty’s jacket, and he pulls them away like he’s blistered himself on a hot cooker.  He’s breathing hard as he lets his head drop, and he says much softer, "I’ll keep playing, as long as you leave John out of it."  

It’s almost as if he’s ashamed by the admission.  I just can’t be sure if he’s afraid he’s disappointing John or Moriarty.

"I know you will."  Moriarty sounds genuinely sympathetic.  "You’d lost your edge since you found your low-ranking doctor, Sherlock.  But it’s still in there, isn’t it?  Lost away under all that moon-eyed love and affection.  So tedious and exhausting; I don’t know how you can stand it."  He crinkles his nose in disgust.  "Still, you’re mind-numbingly mopey without John.  So, I’ll let you keep him…for now.  But if you expect me to be on my best behavior when it comes to John, you had better bring your best to the game.  I know you, Sherlock.  I know you inside and out." He pats at Sherlock’s chest.   "If I decide your heart really isn’t it in, I’ll let my colonel blow a hole straight through your captain’s, simple as that.  See?  We do agree on some things-- sometimes brown shoes and jumpers really are the best way to approach a problem."

Sherlock raises his head defiantly.  "And what if I find a way to remove that particular threat from play?"

Moriarty beams at the question.  "Now that’s the Sherlock vigor I’ve been missing.  Shall I let you in on a little secret?" He leans forward and whispers something into Sherlock’s ear that I can’t hear.

Sherlock pales slightly as he listens, eyes flicking toward Moran in a dangerous flash.

Still smiling with a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, Moriarty straightens his back as well as the front of his jacket.  "Unfortunately, that offer has now expired.  But keep thinking outside the box; I like that."

Standing, Moriarty signals the crane.  "And speaking of boxes…"   This time the crate is set lightly on the ground.  

I’m honestly not sure if I’m more relieved that it’s down or that I’m not going to have to be the one to operate the crane.

When Sherlock returns to his feet, Moriarty slaps him good naturedly on the shoulder.  "See if you can convince John to give you back your bollocks and we’ll all be having fun again before you know it."

Brushing dust from his knees, Moriarty turns to me.  "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

I look to Sherlock, who nods once, before I unfasten the cuffs on Moran.

Moran rubs his wrists and steps beside Moriarty.  "That’s it?  All this fuss and it’s over just like that?"

"Actually, it’s all just begun," Moriarty assures him.  He forms the shape of a phone with his hand and mouths, "call me," at Sherlock as he turns and leisurely strolls away.

I’m not sure if I should just let them go or not.  After all, they’re both international criminals, not to mention world class pricks.  But I take my cue from Sherlock and watch them disappear back into the shadows of the half-built buildings.  Besides, what would I do with them if I arrested them?  If Moriarty can be found wearing the bloody Crown Jewels and still be acquitted by a jury, then nothing would ever stick.

* * * * *

As soon as they’re out of sight, Sherlock jogs toward the box now sitting on the ground, and I fall in beside him.

"What did he say to you?" I ask as we run across the yard.

"Nothing of importance," Sherlock lies.

"Don’t bullshit me, Sherlock."  But by that time, we’re almost at the crate.

"John?" he calls before we even reach it. "John!"

There’s a banging from inside, a muffled, "Sherlock?" and Sherlock pulls in a ragged breath at the sound.

"John, we’re going to get you out," he promises, patting back on the lid, then telling me, "Find something to pry it open," even as he starts searching himself.

I follow him toward a tool bin and start digging through it as he ducks behind a pile of timber.  "Sherlock, what did Moriarty—"

"He told me that if I’d tossed Moran off the roof at Bart’s, he would have released John and all of this would have been over!" he snaps.  "All of it!"  He shakes his head in what looks to be disbelief mixed with disgust.  "If I’d just showed a little conviction, a little backbone, he would have respected me enough to walk away."  And now the disgust seems directed at himself.

"Jesus," I exhale.  "You don’t actually believe him, do you?"

"I considered the possibility that is what he wanted all along," he admits as he goes back to searching.  "Why else lead me to Bart’s to find Moran other than a test of how far I was willing to go for John?  I spent nine months tracking Moran and all it would have taken to accomplish what I had tried to do during all that time was to simply open my hands."

"But you didn’t do it," I point out as I pull out wrenches and sockets, consider if the screwdriver I just found is strong enough to do the job.

"There was a chance, a slim one, that I was wrong," Sherlock concedes.  "But as unlikely as that was, even those odds weren’t worth risking John’s life over.  So now I’m back to playing Moriarty’s games, as if all that time away was a colossal waste of time."  He snorts to himself with a shake of his head.  "That’s how far I’m willing to go for John.  

"You made the right choice," I tell him as he disappears behind a pile of wood.  Not that I think he puts much credence in my opinion, usually it’s just the opposite, but I wanted him to know it just the same.  "John will agree."

"John is never to know," Sherlock says firmly.  "If he knew I’d even considered throwing an unarmed, bound man off a roof, no matter how deserving, he would make me read the Geneva Convention…"  He pops up with a crow bar in hand.  "…again."

I can see where John, as a military man, would hold fast to the concept of how to treat of prisoner of war, but Moriarty sure as hell didn’t apply it to him.  It doesn’t take long before we have the lid pried off, and after one look at a bruised and bloodied John, I’m pulling out my mobile to call for an ambulance.

John squints against the sunlight, raising a hand to block it even as Sherlock leans over the top of the crate.

Sherlock’s face is a reflection of my own; a mixture of relief, new worry, and anger to see John’s condition, which is best described as alive but beaten to hell.

"Get me the hell out of here," John croaks out.

"An ambulance is on the way," Sherlock tries to reason. "Perhaps it would be best—"

"Get me out of this fucking box, Sherlock.  _Now_ ," John orders, ignoring the argument to wait for medical help.

Sherlock leans down further so that John can wrap an arm around his neck and lifts as gently as he can.  It’s not enough to keep John from grunting in pain.

As soon as he can, Sherlock slides his arms under John to help pull him out.  "Is it your ribs?"

"Those, too, yeah." John manages to force the words out between teeth grit against the pain. "But mainly… my shoulder. Dislocated…on second trip…God…down."

"I’m going to stand you up now," Sherlock warns once he has John sitting upright.  When John nods, face pressed against Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock straightens and pulls John with him.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, that hurts," John says breathlessly when he’s on his feet, and I see Sherlock’s arms tighten to keep him standing.  Or maybe it’s just to hold him for a moment.

Sherlock spares a second to cup the back of John’s head in silent apology as John pants against his neck.  "Lestrade, I could use some assistance.  Please."  Between the two of us, we manage to get John out and moved over to a pallet of concrete blocks to ease him down again, where he slumps more than sits.

"Moriarty?" John asks, his face contorted as badly as his shoulder.

"Irrelevant at the moment."  Sherlock’s lips are narrowed into a thin line as he takes in the dried blood from John’s abduction, much of it covered with new from the bashing he took from the drops from the crane.  "You, however, are anything but irrelevant."  He clears his throat, blinking as if to clear away the battered image of John sitting before him, and maybe a bit of embarrassment at his declaration.

"What did he want?  Why—"

Sherlock bowls right over the questions John tries to ask, dodging that whole Geneva Convention issue.  "Your shoulder…shall we wait for the paramedics to arrive?"

Not that I blame him for changing the subject.  How do you explain what just happened?  How do you explain anything done by someone who’s as completely mental as Moriarty?  I’m not sure I ever could, much less at this moment.

John drops his line of questioning about Moriarty and looks up at Sherlock through a swollen eye. "You know what you’re doing?" 

"In theory," Sherlock admits.  "You tell me what to do and I’ll do it."

"Then let’s get on with it."

Without hesitation, Sherlock manipulates John’s arm the way he’s instructed until it pops back into the socket.  John, for his part, passes through several shades of green during the ordeal, but he manages to choke down any cries of pain that threaten to bubble out, finally exhaling in relief when it’s been set. 

When he’s finished, Sherlock gently tips John’s chin up to study his face, frowning even deeper at what he sees.

"Better," John promises, sounding a bit woozy and breathless.  "Thank you. Now sit down."

"I’m fine," Sherlock tells him, although it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that he is the furthest from being fine that he could be without needing medical assistance himself.

"Well, I’m not," John informs him, "and I could use something to prop me up, preferably you."

"Oh, in that case…"  Sherlock takes a seat beside him on the bricks, and John leans heavily into his chest.

John seems content just to close his eyes and breath as Sherlock wraps one arm carefully around him.  Sherlock’s glare in my direction dares me to say anything about this uncommonly tender side he’s exhibiting.  He has nothing to worry about; I’m so happy and relieved that we’re all still alive that I’m about thirty seconds from joining them in a group hug.

Cracking his least swollen eye open, John seems to take notice of me for the first time.  "Greg," he greets.

"John," I return, then note, "Doesn’t look like that evening at home with Chinese take away turned out exactly the way you thought it would."

"Not exactly, no," he agrees with a curl of his lips. "I end up in a box and you end up with Sherlock in his dressing gown?  Doesn’t seem quite fair."

"It wasn’t fair, and I’m not sure how I got the short end of the stick on that one, mate."  

John huffs a laugh, letting his eyes close again.  "Suppose I owe you a pint for that one."

"I’ll hold you to that."  In the distance, I hear the ambulance sirens approaching, and feel my own heart rate returning to something in the vicinity of what could be considered normal.    "Still need totake a piss?"

"After nearly plummeting to my death from a crane three times?  Not so much."

We both laugh at that, even Sherlock chuckles until John complains of the act hurting ribs.  But even after the medics arrive to transport John to A&E, with Sherlock criticizing everything they do as incompetent and nearly being banned from riding along, I can’t help smiling.  The sheer relief that we somehow, inexplicably, managed to get him back alive trumps even the headache of paperwork and explanations that I know are ahead of me because of all this mess.

The truth is, I’ve never been so happy to see a Jack…or John, as the case may be…pop out of a box in all my life.

* * * * *

It’s almost two weeks after the kidnapping that I get a frantic text from John.

F _ind a case for Sherlock_.

I text back: _Nothing worth his attention on the docket._

_*Any* case._

_Thought he only left flat for 7 or above?_

And after what had happened to John, it would more likely take an eleven to pry him away.

M _ake one a 7._

_You want me to stage a crime scene?_

_If that’s what it takes._

_Matter of life or death._

"What the fuck?" I mumble as I wave absently at Donovan walking by my office. 

 _WTF??_? 

Sally pops her head in the door.  "Forensics wants to pick up the old lady down on Bridger.  We good to go?"

Poor old girl.  She’d been dead in her flat for more than a week before the postman noticed her letter boxwas full and smelled something off.  Found her still sitting in her lounger with the telly on and a ready-made in her lap.  No sign of forced entry or funny business of any sort; most likely she probably just suffered a massive heart attack during _Downton Abbey_.

I’m just about to give Sally the okay, when a series of texts come in from John.

_Yesterday- calculated amount of arsenic needed to kill 50 y.o. 185lb  5’11" male._

Wait-- that sounds like a description of me.

_Today- same calc but for strychnine._

_10 min ago- asked how many pieces of Mrs. H would fit in typical carryon case._

_Now Googling chainsaws._

 

Well…hell.

"Sally, why don’t we hold off on the Medical Examiner?  I think I want Sherlock to take a look at the scene first."

"Sherlock?" she asks in surprise.  "You think we’re dealing with a murder?"

Standing, I grab my coat from the back of my chair.  "No, but I think it might prevent one."

As I head to my car, I text back, _On my way._

I step out onto the street to see an attractive young woman with long dark hair in an even darker dress standing next to a long dark car with even darker windows.  She looks up from her texting to smile.   "Detective Inspector Lestrade, a moment, please."

She opens the door and I’m not the least bit surprised to see Mycroft in the seat.  "Might I offer you a ride?"

No, that’s the absolute last thing I would like…in the world.  But that’s not something I can say to Mycroft Holmes.

"Actually, I was just on my way to pick up…" I pause, not wanting to tell him I’m doing anything with his brother, otherwise I’ll probably be given rules four through ten to live with in addition to the other three I already have burned into my memory.  "That is, I was on my way to a crime scene for a possible homicide—"

"I assure you, I have no intention of taking up anymore of your time than necessary.  I’ll have your car dropped at Baker Street, Detective Inspector."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my car pass by heading in just that direction. 

Damn.  

I consider legging it, but quickly decide that will gain me nothing, so I have no choice but to climb into the seat beside Mycroft.

"This is even roomier inside than a thought it would be," I say as I look around, fingers drumming nervously on my legs.  "Bit of a TARDIS effect, isn’t it?"

Mycroft forces a tight but pleasant smile at my observation then promptly ignores it.  "Might I offer you some tea?"

"No thanks," I refuse then say, "but please, don’t stop on my account," when he hesitates to retrieve the cup he already has poured for himself.

"A biscuit," he prods, offering a small dish of treats. "At the very least."

I’m afraid he might think I’m being rude, and God knows what he might do if he thought I was snubbing him intentionally.  I could go home to find HMRC waiting to audit me, or that I’ve been evicted from my flat.  Or something even worse; I could end up being reassigned to Croydon.

Best just to take the damn biscuits, which I do…and they’re ridiculously delicious.  Like flaky bites of angel wings made out of butter and sugar.

He settles back against the leather seats, a cup of fine china held delicately between thumb and fingers.  "I had meant to contact you earlier, but was regrettably otherwise engaged until just recently."

"Right.  How did things go in North Korea?" I ask, as if I’m just making small talk about his recent holiday, refusing to acknowledge how surreal this conversation, this situation, really is.

"Seoul wasn’t decimated in a nuclear fireball anytime over the past week, so that should suffice to answer your question."   He sips from his cup.

All I can say to that is, "Right," and eat another biscuit.

"Quite so," he agrees before setting down his drink.  "But now that I am back in London, I wanted to thank you for your assistance with Sherlock and the unfortunate incident with John."

Even with my mouth full, I can’t stop from blurting, "Really?" 

If Mycroft notices the spray crumbs across the seat with my exclaiming, he doesn’t say anything about it. He does, however, raise his eyebrows.  "You seem surprised."

Brushing biscuit bits off my tie, I remind, "Well, I mean, it’s just that you threatened to have me sacked…repeatedly."

"You’ll forgive me for that, won’t you?"  He at least has the decency to look abashed.  "I think we can agree the whole situation was very troubling; it was my concern talking, I assure you.  Indeed, I am grateful for all you have done for Sherlock over the years.  I know it can’t have been easy for you dealing with my brother’s…shall we say, eccentricities?"

"I suppose that’s the polite term for saying he can be complete dick on occasion." I snort.

"I believe that goes without saying," Mycroft agrees. "And since he’s met John…" He sighs and takes another sip of tea.  "I had hoped Dr. Watson would curb his reckless tendencies, or at the very least not worsen them.   I was sorely mistaken."

I frown.  "Are you suggesting John is a bad influence?  Because if you are—"

"Quite the contrary. Sherlock, while no less irresponsible, is without a doubt much more at peace than he has been since he was a child.  Any person who can do that for my brother without requiring a stay at a mental facility for his troubles has my utmost respect."

"Sherlock could test Job’s patience."  Leaning forward, I snag another biscuit.  "These are really good.  Where did you get them?"

"Anthea.  She’s rather indispensable."

"She _bakes_ them?"

"Procures," he corrects.  "I’ll inquire after the name of the bakery, if you like, but I believe it’s located in a small village in Belgium."

"Belgium?  Don’t get over there very often."  It doesn’t stop me from taking two more and leaning back in my seat.  "So, I’m assuming you didn’t just happen along to offer me tea and biscuits?"

"As pleasant as this is, no."  Wait a minute; did I just detect condescension in his tone? "I could once again use your assistance as it pertains to Sherlock.  I need to know how he’s coping with Moriarty’s return."

Well, that was the million pound question, wasn’t it?  I’d honestly barely seen either Sherlock or John since the whole kidnapping, mainly because John wasn’t feeling up to leaving the flat, and Sherlock wasn’t up to leaving John.  The one time I had offered Sherlock a case, he’d solved it by text within ten minutes of seeing the crime scene photos.  And when I’d tried to broach the subject of what he intended to do about Moriarty while we were at the hospital with John, he’d simply walked away to berate a poor porter who happened to be standing nearby.

"If you’re asking what he’s got planned, you’re asking the wrong person."  I chew on another biscuit.  "Besides, aren’t you the one with all the surveillance and cameras and stuff?  Wouldn’t it be easier to just listen in or watch what Sherlock is up to yourself?  Or, you know, ring him up now and again?"

Mycroft sighs across the lip of his tea cup.  "My brother has a disturbing proclivity toward spiteful belligerence and exhibitionism when it comes to me and my work.  Combine that with the fact he and John are rather enthusiastic about their relationship at this stage and you’ll understand why I had all my devices removed and the cameras on the streets pointed away from any open windows in their flat."  He drinks then rests his cup in the saucer he balances in his other hand.  "While this has resulted in an exasperating lack of information on Sherlock’s current state of mind, my sanity, and that of my employees, must be taken into consideration."

I nod my head and chew.  "You are preaching to the converted there."

"As to ringing him up…" He sips his tea.  "Let’s just say a certain North Korean dictator is more likely to take my calls than Sherlock, and I just set his nuclear weapons program back at least eighteen months.  So you understand why I’ve come to you, Detective Inspector?"

"I’m not going to nark on Sherlock," I tell him flat out.  "Not that he tells me much of anything—"

"But John does," Mycroft observes in a way that has me scowling.

"Now wait just a minute. Asking me to spy on Sherlock is one thing, asking me to do that to John is another."  In protest, I return the biscuit I haven’t yet eaten to the plate.  "What John tells me, he tells me as a mate, in confidence.  I won’t betray that."

"Even if it might save his life and that of Sherlock?"

I’m not sure if I’m frowning because of his presumption that I would roll over on John and Sherlock so easily, his arrogance that he could actually protect them, or that fact that he very well might be the only person who could.

Instead of answering, I ask a question of my own.  "What are you doing about Moriarty?"

"Everything possible," he assures, but the question has him bristling and smoothing the seam of his trousers.

"Why didn’t you do that before?" 

I’d seen the way John tried to punch him at Sherlock’s memorial service.  With John nearly sodded out of his mind, it hadn’t taken much for me to learn Mycroft had been the one to tell Moriarty everything he needed to know about Sherlock to destroy his reputation.

"I… miscalculated Jim Moriarty before."  Mycroft finally looks me in the eyes again.  "I assure you, I will not make that same mistake twice."

He may be telling the truth, but still…

"You don’t have anything on him, do you?  Not a lead, a rumor, nothing."

"It is simply a matter of time—" he starts, but I bang on the privacy window between us and driver.

"That’s what I thought."  When the window lowers a crack, I tell the driver.  "Stop the car.  I’ll walk the rest of the way."

"That won’t be necessary, Detective Inspector." Mycroft tries to reason.  "I’m sure we can find some sort of compromise amenable to both of us."

The limo pulls to the side of the road, and I climb out.  I lean back in to tell Mycroft, "When you have something concrete on Moriarty, ring me.  Otherwise don’t waste your time or mine."

With a final glower, I reach in further and take a handful of biscuits before straightening and closing the door.  It’s about a ten block walk to 221b from here, and I could use a little sustenance for the trip.

* * * * *

About a block from their flat, I run into Mrs. Hudson walking Baskerville…or given the way the hound pulls the little old lady behind him, maybe it’s the other way around.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," I greet.  "Taking the mutt for his morning constitutional?"

"Oh, Detective Inspector, how are you?  Poor thing is a ball of energy, and with the boys shut up in their flat, it’s up to me to get him out in the fresh air." She tuts as Baskerville sniffs my feet before that curious nose moves straight for my crotch.  I jump back as she yanks on his lead. "Bask! You naughty beast.  Leave the poor man alone."

"He probably just smells the biscuits on me." I feed him the last one from my pocket.

"I’m surprised he doesn’t weigh ten stone by now with all the treats he’s been eating.  I think John feels guilty for not being able to take him out, what with his ribs and shoulder…not that it’s easy for me with my bad hip, mind you…but all Bask wants to do it climb all over John and that just isn’t allowed."  She leans in and says in a lowered voice behind her hand.  "Truth be told, Sherlock isn’t allowed to climb on John either, which puts him in a fouler mood than poor Baskerville.  So I don’t mind our little walkies around the neighborhood; get’s me away from the grumpiness."

"I’ve heard," I tell her, hitching my chin toward the flat, "which is why I’m here.  Hopefully I can drag Sherlock out to look at a crime scene for me."

"Oh, a nice murder."  She squeezes my arm with a smile.  "That always puts him in a better mood."

When Bask tugs on the leash trying to get to a bin, we say our goodbyes and I continue down the street. With Mrs. Hudson out, I know Sherlock won’t answer the door, and doubt John would be up to it, so I let myself in and start up the stairs. From inside, I can hear the two of them talking in raised voices, not fighting, but as if they are in different rooms.

"Sherlock, what are you wearing?"

"Don’t even think about trying that, John."

"You could just come in here with me instead."

"The last time I did that, you ended up requiring extra pain medication.  I think it’s best I stayed out here."

"Then just tell me what you’re wearing."

I’m just about to knock to let them know I’m here, when Sherlock responds.

"Nothing whatsoever."

My hand pauses, because walking in on Sherlock nude was not on my itinerary today.

John laughs lightly.  "Not only are you a liar, you’re also a colossal tease."

I can hear the humor in Sherlock’s voice as he says, "I’m not lying; Baskerville has eaten every stitch of clothing I own."

Well, that’s a lie if ever I heard one, but I still peek in the door to see if he’s actually clothed before I announce myself.  He is fully dressed in shirt and trousers with his dressing gown instead of jacket, sitting on the sofa with his bare feet propped on the table and his laptop on his knees.

"Unfortunately, that I could believe," John laments from the other room, the bedroom I’m assuming.  "But I still want you to come in here and prove it."

Sherlock grins; one of his real grins that I only ever see directed at John.  "You’re supposed to be resting," Sherlock reminds.

"We’ll just get off for a bit.  No harm in that."

"Nice try, but I’m not falling for that.  You’ll just end up in more pain."

There’s a pause before John asks, "Sherlock, don’t you want to know what I’m wearing?"

"Not particularly, no," Sherlock says firmly, but then his mobile chimes indicating he has a message.  As he opens it, his expressions changes from humor to something a little more lustful.  "Oh, John, you do not fight fair," he murmurs.

Deciding now would be the opportune time to announce myself before Sherlock decides to take John up on his offer, I knock loudly on the door.  "Sherlock?  John?  Anyone about?"

Sherlock looks up from the photo on his phone and his grin turns to a frown.  "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too," I snipe back at him.

"Greg?  That you?" John calls.

"In the flesh." My smile widens when I see him walk gingerly through the kitchen.  "Well, then, don’t you look like you could be counted among the living once more."

In all honesty, he still looks like utter shit. The bruises have reached that stage where the blacks and blues have faded to yellows and greens, which just make him look like he’s going to sick up at any moment.  His arm is still in a sling and he’s still hunched a bit protectively over his ribs.  But the swelling is down and the smile is genuine and God knows I’ll take it over the alternative of declaring how peaceful he looks in his coffin at his funeral.

"I’m feeling a bit more lively."  He shoots what he thinks is a secret grin at Sherlock, but having overheard their recent conversation, I don’t miss the double entendre.  "So what brings you by?"

As if he didn’t know, but apparently he hasn’t told Sherlock his frantic texts are behind my visit.

"Mycroft," Sherlock notes, standing to quickly inspect my tie then sniff me in much the same way Baskerville had...thankfully skipping the crotch.  "You’ve been eating Anthea’s biscuits."

I step away before he can sniff me again.  "How the hell did you know that?"

"You smell like leather and the smoked bergamot of Mycroft’s favorite aged Earl Grey tea.  Combine that with a plethora of shortbread crumbs; it can only mean you’ve been riding with Mycroft in his car eating Anthea’s delectable treats."

"They really are delicious," John adds.  "They almost make being whisked off to a drafty old warehouse by Mycroft worth the hassle."

I’m still standing with my mouth half open in shock.  Of course, I should be used to Sherlock pulling these sorts of stunts by now, so I simply nod in agreement.  "They actually do.  She’s one hell of a personal assistant.  I can’t even get my secretary to pour me a cup of coffee."

Sherlock snorts.  "She’s not his secretary, and calling her that is one sure way to end up dead."

"Literally," John stresses. "She won’t even stop texting while she does it."

"At least she has that in common with my secretary," I mumble then add louder, "But actually, Mycroft simply offered me a ride."

"Mycroft wouldn’t simply offer you a ride out of the goodness of his heart, as that would require him to actually have one," Sherlock concludes. "So it can only mean he wanted to glean information about me."

"An occasional phone call to your brother could save us all a great deal of trouble, Sherlock," I point out.

"For you maybe, not for me," Sherlock counters.  "So what did you tell him?"

"Thank you for the delicious biscuits and to ring his brother if he wants to know anything else."

Sherlock seems please with my response, although he asks, "How much did he offer to pay you?"

"Pay me?" I ask in surprise, and perhaps a bit of disappointment.  "He would have paid me?"

John jumps in then, before the real reason for my visit gets lost in the conversation about Mycroft.  "So if not Mycroft, why are you here?" he prompts.

"Right.  The real reason I’m here is because I have a case I want you to look at.  Old lady we found dead in her flat.  Doesn’t really look suspicious, but something just seems off."

"Off."  Sherlock derides in mock contemplation.  "Hmm, yes.  Very detailed observation, Detective Inspector.  Are you sure it’s simply off, or is it, perhaps, peculiar, or dare I say, hinky?" 

"I don’t know how to explain it any better," I prevaricate, "it’s just off." When Sherlock frowns at me, I throw my arms wide.  "Look, if I knew what it was, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?"

Sherlock snorts and resumes working on his laptop.  "You always need me.  But until you can give me some specifics, I see no reason to leave."

"Well, I’m curious now," John pipes up.  "I say we go." Sherlock narrows his eyes at John.  "What?  We can’t laze around here in our dressing gowns forever."

Sherlock ignores his reasoning.  "I’m busy."

"Doing what?" John questions.  "Calculating how much poison it takes to kill our closest friends?"

"It’s for a table I’m generating for my website," Sherlock defends grumpily.  "Can I help it if we associate with a broad spectrum of specimens in regards to weights and ages?"

" _People_ , Sherlock, not specimens," John corrects.

Sherlock simply waves a hand dismissively.  "Semantics."

"Isn’t it a bit dangerous to post that sort of information for the general public to read?" I ask with a grimace.  That’s all we need is Sherlock’s blog turning into a do it yourself site for potential killers.

By the frown on Sherlock’s face, I can tell he hasn’t exactly thought through the ramifications of his plans.  Not that that is anything new, but it’s enough to have him close his laptop.

Looking up at John, he challenges, "Do you really feel up to it?"

"Would I even offer if I didn’t?"  When Sherlock doesn’t seem convinced, John adds.  "I’ll take half a pain pill before we leave.  Now help me dress so you can do the same."

"Very well," Sherlock finally agrees, although reluctantly, I might add.

They disappear into the bedroom and reappear a few minutes later with Sherlock now sporting his jacket and shoes.  John is in jeans and a jumper but still in his sock feet.

"Just fetch my trainers from the closet upstairs," John is saying to a less than pleased Sherlock.  "They’re less work to tie than my boots."

"As long as you understand there is to be no running on your part," Sherlock stresses.  "Your ribs and shoulder are nowhere close to being healed enough for that."

"Yes, mummy, whatever you say."  John rolls his eyes.  "Have you forgotten who actually has the medical degree here?"

As soon as Sherlock disappears up the stairs, John squeezes my arm with his good hand.  "Greg, I don’t know how to thank you for this.  God knows I love the hell out of him, but it’s just… I’ve never been trapped with him like this for so long, especially with no other ways to distract him—"

I cut him off before he can start talking about how he would normal do that.  "Any time.  You should have called me in sooner."  I look at him closer, seeing there is more than just the injury there.  "You holding up okay?  After everything that happened, I mean?"

"Yeah, sure," he assures, although I don’t really believe him.  "If anything, I’m worried about Sherlock.  He won’t talk about what happened, not really, and especially not about what happened between him and Moriarty.  Not that Sherlock’s the most rational man alive on a normal day, but with Moriarty…" He sighs, leaving the rest unsaid.

"But fortunately, he has you," I attempt to reassure.

"I’m not sure that’s enough."  John shakes his head.  "When it comes to Moriarty, he doesn’t think of anything else."

"Hey, if there’s one thing I learned during this whole mess, it’s that Sherlock _always_ thinks of you."  I shift uncomfortably.  "You remember what you were telling me about at the pub the night you were kidnapped?  About how Sherlock thinks about other things while the two of you are…" I bobble my head, hoping he gets the gist of what I’m saying so I don’t actually have to say it.

It’s hard to tell if John is blushing under the bruises, but his abashed grin says it all.  "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, you have nothing to worry about.  Sherlock’s brain goes a thousand different directions at once and jumps around like a bloody rabbit on crack, but it never strays from you. Ever.  Even with Moriarty, he’s thinking of you first and foremost."

"That doesn’t exactly make me feel better," he admits.

"I doubt it does," I agree, "but maybe you can use it to your advantage."

Sherlock reappears, trainers in hand, and our conversation ends.  "Sit," he orders gruffly, then kneels in front of John to help him with the shoes.

Now _this_ , I need to capture for posterity.  Pulling my mobile, I snap a quick photo, nodding knowingly to John indicating I’ll send him a copy shortly.  It may not be as highly entertaining as the video of a drugged Sherlock being poured into a car from Irene Adler’s house, but it may come in handy in the future…like when I need to remind myself Sherlock does have some humanity in him after all.

Standing, Sherlock glares at me.  "If John’s ribs start bothering him, I blame the incompetence of you and your entire staff."

With a heavy sigh, I study the picture on my mobile.  I have a feeling I may need to make this my background screen.

Although, when we arrive at the crime scene and Sherlock declares it a murder within a minute of walking past the uniformed on duty, I remember why I put up with him.

"Really?" I ask in more surprise that I should be showing, since technically I was the one who told him foul play may be involved.

There are still a few men from the Yard lingering about, officially guarding the scene, but more likely just not wanting to return to their normal beat.  At least they’ve aired the place out a bit so the stench of a week old dead body doesn’t knock a person down when they walk through the door.

Sherlock, however, finds something else to smell.  He sniffs at the dish of fish fingers then shoves them under my nose.  "Garlic."

I catch just the faintest whiff.  "Yeah.  So?"

Shoving the dish into my hands, Sherlock turns in a flourish and heads to the kitchen.  John lifts his head from where it’s propped on his fist at the table to watch Sherlock rummage through the bin.

"Find something interesting, did you?"  He seems as surprised as I am by the turn of events, not to mention a little glassy-eyed from his pain medication Sherlock insisted he take before leaving their flat.

I can only shrug at John, because, really, I thought it was a cut and dry heart attack.

Sherlock lifts the box for the fish fingers out of the bin, scans the back, then hands it to me.  "Do you see garlic listed as an ingredient?"

"No," I confirm after reading it over.  "Maybe she added a sprinkle for flavoring."

"Or maybe someone sprinkled a little arsenic in her meal," Sherlock offers as an alternative.

My eyes widen at the idea.  "She was poisoned?"

"Arsenic does have a garlic odor," John confirms.

All I can say is, "She was _poisoned_?" 

"You were the one who said something was off," Sherlock reminds.  Although the quirk of his lips lets me know he never believed that excuse in the first place.  "Apparently there is something to your intuition after all, Lestrade."

Damn if he isn’t an arrogant prick.  But chances are he’s right, at least about the murder. 

"Poisoned with fish fingers," I tsk with a shake of my head.  "Is that even possible?"

"She’s about Mrs. Hudson’s size and age," Sherlock notes.  "Fortunately for you, I have the calculations of exactly how much arsenic it would take to kill her.  I’d have to say a two fish fingers worth would just about do it."

I frown at the smug expression on Sherlock’s face that he was able to apply his macabre death charts.  "Well, who would poison her?"

Sherlock returns to the body to point out the drink sitting on the side table.  He lifts it to the light to study a cigarette floating in the water there.  "Your victim doesn’t smoke, as you can see if you check her fingers for nicotine stains—you won’t find any.  Nor are their cigarettes in her purse or a pack next to her seat as would be common with a smoker.  Also there are no ash trays in the flat, which is why the cigarette was extinguished in the glass.  Still, there is the scent of old smoke in the flat, as if someone smoked here on a regular basis.  Now, a visitor might smoke; however a friend wouldn’t extinguish a cigarette in their host’s glass, as even I know that is rather rude.  No, whoever did this was here frequently, but not necessarily welcome, or she would have purchased at least one ashtray for this person to use when they stopped by."  Sherlock stares at the ash floating in the glass he still holds.  "She was in the middle of her meal when she died. One can assume she was also in the middle of her drink, so the cigarette was dropped in there after she was dead.  Who, besides the murderer, would be here after she was dead and not report it?"

"So she was killed by a smoker.  Still doesn’t tell me who did it," I point out.

"The photo on top of the telly is of a teenage boy, the only photo in the entire flat, so he must be someone she cares about.  The dress is indicative of the 1970s, that time period combined with her age, it’s most likely her son."

"We’re trying to locate him to notify as next of kin," I tell him

Sherlock just ignores the information.  "There are no other photos…no graduation from university, no wedding pictures, no grandchildren, not even any snapshots from family gatherings…and yet that one photo is featured prominently, suggesting she’s clinging to a version of her son for which she was proud, as opposed to the current version she is not.  The bed pillow and blanket on the sofa could be for her to use while watching telly, but the recliner is well worn on the arms, indicating she normally sat here in the evenings.  No, the sofa was being used by a houseguest, for argument’s sake, let’s say it’s the son.  Now, why would her son be sleeping on the sofa?"

"Neighbours say he stopped by every month or so, but had been here more often lately.  Husband next door chatted with him a few times on the stoop having a smoke.  Told him his mum had been feeling poorly.  Maybe he was looking after her."

"Cared enough to spend the night and nurse her back to health, and yet now you can’t reach him when she’s been dead a week?"  Sherlock shakes his head.  "No, more likely he was staying here because he had no other place to go.  And the only time you have no place to go except your mother’s typically means financial concerns."

I play the devil’s advocate.  "Just because he had money problems, doesn’t mean he killed her."  I wave my arms at the sparsely decorated room.    "Look around; she’s not exactly minted, is she? What’s here looks like it’s been here for twenty years or more."

"And yet it was very high end back then.   Well made, quality upholstery, hard woods, even her clothes, though outdated are designer labels.  No, she may not have money now, but at one point she did."  Sherlock lifts her left hand and studies the wedding ring there.  "By the indention on her finger, I’d say the engagement ring that has been removed was set with a rather large diamond."

"Bloody hell," I murmur as I pull my mobile and ring Donovan to put out a bulletin on the son and bring in the CID for further investigation.

By the time I finish, Sherlock is leaning against the kitchen table where John is sitting.

"You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?" John asks Sherlock with a hazy grin.

"Finding a murder where there shouldn’t have been one, no matter how blatantly obvious it was to anyone with eyes and a nose?"  His eyes flick in my direction before he shrugs.  "I suppose you expect me to be grateful to you and Lestrade for concocting this outing."

John nods.  "If it’s not too much of a strain, gratitude would be rather nice…and a refreshing change of pace."

"Well, it definitely didn’t rank a seven." Sherlock sniffs in disdain.  "Hardly a five, even if I’m being generous."

"But you’re still enjoying yourself," John repeats.

With rolled eyes, Sherlock admits, "I suppose it provided a pleasant afternoon’s distraction."

Only Sherlock could find a week old murder scene pleasant, but it definitely made my day more interesting.  Stepping into the kitchen, I rub my hands together.  "So, Anderson and the rest are on their way here."

Straightening, Sherlock gently pulls John to his feet.  "Oh, look at the time.  Must be on our way."

"Right," I agree.  "I’ll have a car take you back round to Baker Street."

Sherlock starts shuffling John toward the door, so I walk them out to the street and to the waiting car, even as John offers up The Cold Fish Fingers of Death as a possible blog title.

Sherlock eases John into the backseat with a plea not to use that name even as he wears a concerned frown for the other man’s comfort.  But there is something that has the music twanging metallically in my head.

U _p and down the city road_ …

I look round to try to determine what has me suddenly on edge.

… _in and out the Eagle_ …

Sherlock straightens from his task with John and says simply.  "Bus stop."

Across the traffic of the busy street I see a few people waiting at a bus stop.  A woman with a baby, an elderly lady with a bag of groceries, a teenager wearing headphones and bouncing to the music, and a man with his head bent over a book.

… _that’s the way the money goes_ …

The man looks up from the book in his hand…dark hair, dark jacket… and smiles a very familiar taunting smile as the bus pulls up.

Pop! Goes the weasel.

Moran offers a hand to the elderly lady as she steps up onto the bus, before he gives a quick, off hand salute and climbs on behind her. 

I start to cross the street, already reaching for my gun, but Sherlock’s hand locks on my arm.

"He’s simply toying with us."

Toys.  I’m sick to death of them.  I’m sick of my friends being played with like one.  I’m sick of feeling like I’m one myself.  Only, who’s the one playing now?

"Moran or Moriarty?" I demand starting to pull away.

Sherlock’s grip just tightens as he considers the question, as if that had never occurred to him to think Moran would do anything without Moriarty’s permission.  "Hmm.  Interesting.  Maybe you aren’t always as dull witted as I had thought you were." Then he starts to climb into the car himself.

"Wait," I say dreadfully.  "What are you going to do?"

"Text Jim and thank him for being so concerned that he sent Moran to watch over us."

It’s an interesting ploy.  If Moriarty sent Moran, it lets him know Sherlock was aware of Moran’s presence.  If Moran is acting on his own, it let’s Moriarty know he may need to tighten his leash.  Still, where does that leave us?

"Should _I_ be concerned?" I demand.

"You never should have stopped," he tells me, then smiles cheerfully as he slides into the seat with him mobile in hand.

Funny, but for some reason, that doesn’t make me feel better.  In fact, I feel like my Gran just showed me that damn Jack-in-the-Box for the first time again, with the metal case reverberating with the tinny plunk of the music box.  This time, instead of a brightly painted face, it’s much more human; although the smile is just as demented.  There’s a part of me that wants to run and hide, just like that four-year-old boy I used to be.  But I’m a grown man now, a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard, running and hiding is no longer an option.  John and Sherlock sure aren’t running away, and I’ll be damned if I do.

Still, as I watch the bus with Moran pull away, followed soon after by the car with Sherlock and John, I can’t help but wish for a nice big bed to crawl under for a little while, mothballs and all.

The End


End file.
